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THE  POEMS 

OF 
HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


BOOKS  BY  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

The  Ruling  Passion.    Illustrated  in  color  .  $1.50 
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Out-of-Doors  in  the  Holy  Land.  Illustrated 

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Days  Off.  Illustrated  in  color  .....  $1.50 
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The  White  Bees,  and  Other  Poems     .  net  $1.25 

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Music,  and  Other  Poems    .....  net  $1.00 

The  Toiling  of  Felix,  and  Other  Poems  net  $1.00 

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THE  POEMS 

OF 

HENRY   VAN   DYKE 


NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED  AND  REVISED 
WITH  MANY  HITHERTO  UNPUBLISHED 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

MCMXI 


Copyright,  1911,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  September,  1911 


A  WORD  IN  PROSE 
TO  MY  GENTLE  READER 

THIS  book  is  intended  only  for  you,  because  you  alone  will 
keep  it  with  you  long  enough  to  feel  its  meaning. 

Here  is  gathered  and  set  in  order  all  that  I  have  been  per- 
mitted to  write,  as  yet,  of  the  poetry  that  has  come  to  me.  I 
hoped  once  that  it  would  be  more,  and  feared  often  that  it  might 
be  less.  The  long  silent  interval  between  the  earlier  and  the 
later  poems  was  filled  with  hard  work  at  the  call  of  duty.  I 
have  laboured  in  the  vineyard  and  fought  in  the  ranks.  The 
youthful  plan  of  a  whole  life  devoted  to  the  art  of  poetry  has  not 
been  fulfilled.  Instead  has  come  an  experience  of  the  power  of 
poetry  to  cheer  and  illumine  the  whole  of  life. 

Metre  and  rhyme  have  a  deep  relation  to  the  rhythm  of  human 
emotion,  of  which  I  grow  more  sure  the  less  I  can  explain  it. 
Some  call  them  a  bondage,  but  the  natural  harmony  of  such  laws 
makes  for  true  freedom.  Therefore,  while  using  the  older  metri- 
cal forms  with  love  and  care,  I  have  also  adventured  new  ones, 
believing  that  English  poesy  has  to  win  a  larger  liberty  in  those 
happy  regions  which  lie  between  the  formal  and  the  formless. 

What  I  have  seen  and  felt  and  dreamed  beyond  the  horizon  of 
prose,  yet  ever  in  the  most  real  world,  is  here  interpreted  in 
verse.  And  if  it  speaks  to  you,  gentle  reader,  it  is  yours  as  much 
as  mine. 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE. 


CONTENTS 

SONGS   OUT  OF  DOORS 

PAGE 

WHEN  TULIPS  BLOOM 3 

THE  ANGLER'S  REVEILLE ........  6 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL ..,.>...  IO 

THE  SONG-SPARROW .    ......    .    .  *£ 

THE  RUBY-CROWNED  KINGLET    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .;  .  .    .    .  1$ 

THE  MARYLAND  YELLOW-THROAT    .    .  .;.'    .    .    < t    .    .    .    .  Xp 

THE  HERMIT-THRUSH    . ,  .    .    .     .    .    .     .    .  '  .    .    .    .    .  21 

THE  VEERY 22 

DULCIORA .....  23 

MATINS 24 

A  NOON  SONG 25 

THE   AFTER-ECHO 27 

WINGS   OF  A  DOVE 29 

IF   ALL  THE   SKIES 30 

SCHOOL 31 

THE  PARTING  AND  THE  COMING  GUEST 32 

SPRING   IN  THE  NORTH 34 

SPRING   IN  THE   SOUTH 38 

THE  FALL   OF  THE  LEAVES 40 

INDIAN    SUMMER 42 

A  NOVEMBER   DAISY 43 

A  SNOW-SONG 45 

ALPINE   SONNETS 46 

ROSLIN  AND  HAWTHORNDEN 49 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PACE 

LIGHT  BETWEEN  THE   TREES  .      .      .      .........  50 

THE  LILY  OF   YORROW 53 

ODE — GOD   OF   THE   OPEN  AIR 55 

STORIES  IN  VERSE 

THE  TOILING  OF  FELIX 67 

VERA 82 

ANOTHER   CHANCE IO2 

A  LEGEND   OF   SERVICE Io6 

THE   WHITE   BEES .      » •    .      .  Ill 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE m  .    .  119 

THE   VAIN  KING W     .      .  12$ 

THE  FOOLISH  FIR-TREE I •      .      .  131 

PRO   PATRIA 

PATRIA 139 

AMERICA 140 

THE  ANCESTRAL  DWELLINGS 141 

HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE 144 

SEA-GULLS   OF  MANHATTAN I$2 

A  BALLAD   OF   CLAREMONT  HILL 154 

URBS  CORONATA 157 

MERCY  FOR  ARMENIA 159 

SICILY,   DECEMBER,    1908 .  l6l 

JEANNE  D'ARC 162 

NATIONAL  MONUMENTS 164 

THE  MONUMENT  OF  FRANCIS  MAKEMIE 165 

THE  STATUE  OF  SHERMAN  BY  ST.  GAUDENS 1 66 

"AMERICA  FOR  ME" 167 

THE  BUILDERS     ....... 169 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  EVERLASTING  BOY 183 

WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG  .     . I91 


CONTENTS  ix 
IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 

PAGE 

MOTHER  EARTH 205 

MILTON .  207 

WORDSWORTH 2IO 

KEATS 211 

SHELLEY 212 

ROBERT   BROWNING   .       /  T^jp, 213 

TENNYSON 214 

"IN  MEMORIAM" 215 

VICTOR  HUGO 2l6 

LONGFELLOW 2IQ 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 223 

EDMUND    CLARENCE    STEDMAN 22$ 

TO   JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY 227 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 228 

MUSIC 

MUSIC 231 

MASTER   OF   MUSIC 246 

TO   A   YOUNG  GIRL  SINGING    ....     ,. .      .  248 

THE   PIPES   O'   PAN «      .......  249 

THE  OLD  FLUTE 250 

LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 

A  MILE   WITH  ME 255 

THE  THREE  BEST  THINGS 256 

RELIANCE • 259 

DOORS    OF    DARING 260 

A  HOME  SONG 261 

THE   CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  .  262 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LOVE'S  REASON 263 

PORTRAIT  AND  REALITY 264 

THE  ECHO  IN  THE  HEART     .    .         265 

"UNDINE" 266 

"RENCONTRE" 267 

LOVE  IN  A  LOOK 268 

MY  APRIL  LADY 269 

A  LOVER'S  ENVY 271 

FIRE -FLY  CITY 272 

THE   GENTLE   TRAVELLER 273 

NEPENTHE 274 

DAY  AND  NIGHT 276 

HESPER 277 

ARRIVAL 278 

DEPARTURE 279 

THE   BLACK   BIRDS 280 

WITHOUT   DISGUISE .      . 284 

AN  HOUR 285 

"RAPPELLE-TOI" 286 

EIGHT  ECHOES  FROM  THE  POEMS  OF  AUGUSTE  ANGELLIER  .     .  288 

LOVE'S  NEARNESS 298 

TWO  SONGS  OF  HEINE 299 

THE  RIVER  OF  DREAMS 300 

SONGS   OF   HEARTH  AND   ALTAR 

"LITTLE  BOATIE" 307 

A  MOTHER'S  BIRTHDAY 309 

SANTA  CHRISTINA 311 

RENDEZVOUS 314 

GRATITUDE 31$ 

TRANSFORMATION 316 

THE  WIND  OF  SORROW 317 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

HIDE  AND  SEEK 318 

AUTUMN  IN  THE  GARDEN   ...             32O 

THE  MESSAGE 322 

DULCIS  MEMORIA 323 

THE   WINDOW 325 

PEACE 327 

THE   BARGAIN 328 

BITTER-SWEET 329 

TO  THE   CHILD   JESUS 330 

SONG   OF  A  PILGRIM   SOUL 331 

HYMN  OF  JOY 332 

ODE  TO  PEACE , 334 


INSCRIPTIONS,   GREETINGS,  AND  EPIGRAMS 

FOR  KATRINA'S  SUN-DIAL 341 

FOR  KATRINA'S  WINDOW    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .....    .  342 

FOR  THE  FRIENDS  AT  HURSTMONT  .     .    .    .    ....    .    .    .  343 

THE  SUN-DIAL  AT  MORVEN     .     .     .    *    .    . 344 

THE  SUN-DIAL  AT  WELLS  COLLEGE 345 

TO  MARK  TWAIN 346 

STARS  AND  THE   SOUL 348 

TO  JULIA  MARLOWE 349 

TO  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON   . 350 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD   . 351 

THE  EMPTY  QUATRAIN '    V    * 351 

PAN  LEARNS  MUSIC ,      .      .      ,. 351 

THE   VALLEY   OF    VAIN    VERSES    .      .      .      ,      .  , 352 

THE   SHEPHERD   OF   NYMPHS 353 

ECHOES   FROM  THE   GREEK  ANTHOLOGY     .  ,     >     .      .      .      .  354 

ONE  WORLD 357 

JOY  AND   DUTY 357 

THE  PRISON  AND  THE  ANGEL 358 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WAY ..'"'.      .      .      .      .      ,      ^      ...    .  358 

LOVE  AND  LIGHT 359 

THE   ARROW 359 

FOUR  THINGS 360 

THE   GREAT  RIVER * 360 

WAYFARING    PSALMS 

THE   DISTANT  ROAD X  •      •  363 

THE   WELCOME   TENT 365 

THE    GREAT   CITIES 367 

THE  FRIENDLY  TREES 369 

THE  BROKEN  SWORD 371 

THE  UNSEEN  ALTAR 372 

THE  PATHWAY  OF  RIVERS     ".     . 374 

THE  GLORY  OF  RUINS 376 

THE  TRIBE  OF  THE  HELPERS 377 

THE  GOOD  TEACHER 378 

THE  CAMP-FIRES  OF  MY  FRIEND 379 

THE  HOUSE  OF  RIMMON 381 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES ...  461 


SONGS   OUT   OF   DOORS 


WHEN   TULIPS   BLOOM 


WHEN  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Go  wandering  down  the  dusty  town, 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow, 

And  leads  the  eyes  to  sunset  skies 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow; 

Then  weary  seems  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade: 
I  'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 

II 

I  guess  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook;   and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 

3 


SONGS   OUT  OF  DOORS 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  their  dun, 
For  yellow  coats,  to  match  the  sun; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show  's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees: 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these? 


Ill 

I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaks  upward  slowly  from  the  ground, 
While  on  the  wing  the  bluebirds  ring 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around. 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush;   and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  grows 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "Good  cheer." 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm. 

How  much  I  'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm! 


WHEN  TULIPS  BLOOM 

IV 

JTis  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record,  or  my  line. 

Only  an  idle  little  stream, 
Whose  amber  waters  softly  gleam, 

Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream: 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art: 

'Tis  all  I'm  wishing — old-fashioned  fishing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart. 
1894. 


SONGS   OUT  OF  DOORS 


THE   ANGLER'S   REVEILLE 

WHAT  time  the  rose  of  dawn  is  laid  across  the  lips  of  night, 
And  all  the  little  watchman-stars  have  fallen  asleep  in  light, 
'Tis  then  a  merry  wind  awakes,  and  runs  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  borrows  words  from  all  the  birds  to  sound  the  reveille. 

This  is  the  carol  the  Robin  throws 

Over  the  edge  of  the  valley; 
Listen  how  boldly  it  flows, 
Sally  on  sally: 

Tirra-lirrdy 

Early  morn,  . 

New  born! 

Day  is  near. 

Clear,  dear. 

Down  the  river 

All  a-quiver, 

Fish  are  breaking; 

Time  for  waking. 

Tup,  tup,  tup! 

Do  you  hear? 

All  clear- 
Wake  up! 


THE  ANGLER'S  REVEILLE  7 

The  phantom  flood  of  dreams  has  ebbed  and  vanished  with 

the  dark, 

And  like  a  dove  the  heart  forsakes  the  prison  of  the  ark; 
Now  forth  she  fares  thro'  friendly  woods  and  diamond-fields 

of  dew, 
While  every  voice  cries  out  "Rejoice!"  as  if  the  world  were 

new. 

This  is  the  ballad  the  Bluebird  sings, 

Unto  his  mate  replying, 
Shaking  the  tune  from  his  wings 
While  he  is  flying: 

Surely,  surely,  surely, 
Life  is  dear 
Even  here. 
Blue  above. 
You  to  love, 
Purely,  purely,  purely. 

There  Js  wild  azalea  on  the  hill,  and  iris  down  the  dell, 
And  just  one  spray  of  lilac  still  abloom  beside  the  well; 
The  columbine  adorns  the  rocks,  the  laurel  buds  grow  pink, 
Along  the  stream  white  arums  gleam,  and  violets  bend  to  drink. 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Yellowthroat, 
Fluttering  gaily  beside  you; 


8  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

Hear  how  each  voluble  note 
Offers  to  guide  you: 
Which  way,  sir? 
I  say,  sir, 
Let  me  teach  you, 
I  beseech  you  I 
Are  you  wishing 
Jolly  fishing? 
This  way,  sir! 
Pll  teach  you. 

Then  come,  my  friend,  forget  your  foes,  and  leave  your  fears 

behind, 

And  wander  forth  to  try  your  luck,  with  cheerful,  quiet  mind ; 
For  be  your  fortune  great  or  small,  you  take  what  God  will 

give, 
And  all  the  day  your  heart  will  say,  "  'Tis  luck  enough  to 

live." 

This  is  the  song  the  Brown  Thrush  flings 

Out  of  his  thicket  of  roses; 
Hark  how  it  bubbles  and  rings, 
Mark  how  it  closes: 

Luck,  lucky 

What  luck? 

Good  enough  for  me, 

I'm    alive,    you   see! 


THE  ANGLER'S  REVEILLE 

Sun  shining, 
No  repining; 
Never  borrow 
Idle  sorrow; 
Drop  it! 
Cover  it  up  1 
Hold  your  cup! 
Joy  will  fill  it, 
Don't  spill  it, 
Steady,  be  ready, 

Good  luck  1 
1899. 


io  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL 

Do  you  remember,  father, — 
It  seems  so  long  ago, — 

The  day  we  fished  together 
Along  the  Pocono? 

At  dusk  I  waited  for  you, 
Beside  the  lumber-mill, 

And  there  I  heard  a  hidden  bird 
That  chanted,  "whip-poor-will," 
"  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill ! ' ' 
Sad  and  shrill,— "whippoorwill/" 

The  place  was  all  deserted; 
The  mill-wheel  hung  at  rest; 

The  lonely  star  of  evening 
Was  throbbing  in  the  west; 

The  veil  of  night  was  falling; 
The  winds  were  folded  still; 

And  everywhere  the  trembling  air 
Re-echoed  "whip-poor-will!" 
"  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill  I " 
Sad  and  shrill, — "whippoorwill!" 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL  n 

You  seemed  so  long  in  coming, 

I  felt  so  much  alone; 
The  wide,  dark  world  was  round  me, 

And  life  was  all  unknown; 
The  hand  of  sorrow  touched  me, 

And  made  my  senses  thrill 
With  all  the  pain  that  haunts  the  strain 

Of  mournful  whip-poor-will. 

"Whippoorwillt  whip  poor-will !" 

Sad  and  shrill, — "whippoorwill!" 

What  knew  I  then  of  trouble? 
An  idle  little  lad, 

I  had  not  learned  the  lessons 
That  make  men  wise  and  sad. 

I  dreamed  of  grief  and  parting, 
And  something  seemed  to  fill 

My  heart  with  tears,  while  in  my  ears 
Resounded  "whip-poor-will." 
' '  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill  I ' ' 
Sad  and  shrill,— ll  whippoorwill!" 

'Twas  but  a  cloud  of  sadness, 

That  lightly  passed  away; 
But  I  have  learned  the  meaning 

Of  sorrow,  since  that  day. 


12  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

For  nevermore  at  twilight, 

Beside  the  silent  mill, 
I'll  wait  for  you,  in  the  falling  dew, 

And  hear  the  whip-poor-will. 

"  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill  1 " 

Sad  and  shrill,— "whippoorwilll" 

But  if  you  still  remember, 

In  that  fair  land  of  light, 
The  pains  and  fears  that  touch  us 

Along  this  edge  of  night, 
I  think  all  earthly  grieving, 

And  all  our  mortal  ill, 
To  you  must  seem  like  a  sad  boy's  dream, 

Who  hears  the  whip-poor-will. 

' '  Whippoorwill  I    whippoorwill  I ' ' 

A  passing  thrill, — "whippoorwill/" 
1894. 


THE  SONG-SPARROW  13 


THE   SONG-SPARROW 

THERE  is  a  bird  I  know  so  well, 

It  seems  as  if  he  must  have  sung 

Beside  my  crib  when  I  was  young; 
Before  I  knew  the  way  to  spell 

The  name  of  even  the  smallest  bird, 

His  gentle-joyful  song  I  heard. 
Now  see  if  you  can  tell,  my  dear, 
What  bird  it  is  that,  every  year, 
Sings  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer" 

He  comes  in  March,  when  winds  are  strong, 

And  snow  returns  to  hide  the  earth; 

But  still  he  warms  his  heart  with  mirth, 
And  waits  for  May.     He  lingers  long 

While  flowers  fade;   and  every  day 

Repeats  his  small,  contented  lay; 
As  if  to  say,  we  need  not  fear 
The  season's  change,  if  love  is  here 
With  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer." 

He  does  not  wear  a  Joseph  's-coat 

Of  many  colours,  smart  and  gay; 

His  suit  is  Quaker  brown  and  gray, 
With  darker  patches  at  his  throat. 


14  SONGS   OUT  OF  DOORS 

And  yet  of  all  the  well-dressed  throng 
Not  one  can  sing  so  brave  a  song. 

It  makes  the  pride  of  looks  appear 

A  vain  and  foolish  thing,  to  hear 

His   "Sweet — sweet — sweet— very   merry   cheer" 

A  lofty  place  he  does  not  love, 

But  sits  by  choice,  and  well  at  ease, 
In  hedges,  and  in  little  trees 
That  stretch  their  slender  arms  above 
The  meadow-brook;   and  there  he  sings 
Till  all  the  field  with  pleasure  rings; 
And  so  he  tells  in  every  ear, 
That  lowly  homes  to  heaven  are  near 
In  Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer" 

I  like  the  tune,  I  like  the  words; 

They  seem  so  true,  so  free  from  art, 

So  friendly,  and  so  full  of  heart, 
That  if  but  one  of  all  the  birds 

Could  be  my  comrade  everywhere, 

My  little  brother  of  the  air, 
Fd  choose  the  song-sparrow,  my  dear, 
Because  he  'd  bless  me,  every  year, 
With    "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer" 
1895. 


THE  RUBY-CROWNED   KINGLET  15 


THE   RUBY-CROWNED   KINGLET 

I 

WHERE  's  your  kingdom,  little  king? 
Where  the  land  you  call  your  own, 
Where  your  palace  and  your  throne? 
Fluttering  lightly  on  the  wing 
Through  the  blossom-world  of  May, 
Whither  lies  your  royal  way, 
Little  king? 

Far  to  northward  lies  a  land 
Where  the  trees  together  stand 
Closely  as  the  blades  of  wheat 
When  the  summer  is  complete. 
Rolling  like  an  ocean  wide 
Over  vale  and  mountain  side, 
Balsam,  hemlock,  spruce  and  pine, — 
All  those  mighty  trees  are  mine. 
There  ys  a  river  flowing  free, — 
All  its  waves  belong  to  me. 
There  's  a  lake  so  clear  and  bright 
Stars  shine  out  of  it  all  night; 
Rowan-berries  round  it  spread 
Like  a  belt  of  coral  red. 


16  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

Never  royal  garden  planned     , 
Fair  as  my  Canadian  land! 
There  I  build  my  summer  nest, 
There  I  reign  and  there  I  rest, 
While  from  dawn  to  dark  I  sing, 
Happy  kingdom!    Lucky  king! 

II 

Back  again,  my  little  king! 
Is  your  happy  kingdom  lost 
To  the  rebel  knave,  Jack  Frost? 

Have  you  felt  the  snow-flakes  sting? 
Houseless,  homeless  in  October, 
Whither  now?     Your  plight  is  sober 
Exiled  king! 

Far  to  southward  lie  the  regions 
Where  my  loyal  flower -legions 
Hold  possession  of  the  year, 
Filling  every  month  with  cheer. 
Christmas  wakes  the  winter  rose  ; 
New  Year  daffodils  unclose; 
Yellow  jasmine  through  the  wood 
Flows  in  February  flood, 
Dropping  from  the  tallest  trees 
Golden  streams  that  never  freeze. 


THE  RUBY-CROWNED  KINGLET  17 

Thither  now  I  take  my  flight 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  night, 
Till  I  see  the  southern  moon 
Glisten  on  the  broad  lagoon, 
Where  the  cypress1  dusky  green, 
And  the  dark  magnolia' *s  sheen, 
Weave  a  shelter  round  my  home. 
There  the  snow-storms  never  come; 
There  the  bannered  mosses  gray 
Like  a  curtain  gently  sway, 
Hanging  low  on  every  side 
Round  the  covert  where  I  bide. 
Till  the  March  azalea  glows, 
Royal  red  and  heavenly  rose, 
Through  the  Carolina  glade 
Where  my  winter  home  is  made. 
There  I  hold  my  southern  court, 
Full  of  merriment  and  sport: 
There  I  take  my  ease  and  sing, 
Happy  kingdom!    Lucky  king! 

Ill 

Little  boaster,  vagrant  king, 

Neither  north  nor  south  is  yours, 

You  've  no  kingdom  that  endures! 
Wandering  every  fall  and  spring, 


i8  SONGS   OUT   OF  DOORS 

With  your  ruby  crown  so  slender, 
Are  you  only  a  Pretender, 
Landless  king? 

Never  king  by  right  divine 
Ruled  a  richer  realm  than  mine! 
What  are  lands  and  golden  crowns, 
Armies,  fortresses  and  towns, 
Jewels,  sceptres,  robes  and  rings, — 
What  are  these  to  song  and  wings? 
Everywhere  that  I  can  fly, 
There  I  own  the  earth  and  sky; 
Everywhere  that  I  can  sing. 
There  I  'm  happy  as  a  king. 
1900. 


THE  MARYLAND   YELLOW-THROAT  19 


THE   MARYLAND   YELLOW-THROAT 

WHEN  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees 
With  tassels  and  embroideries, 
And  many  blue-eyed  violets  beam 
Along  the  edges  of  the  stream, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  seems  to  say, 
Now  near  at  hand,  now  far  away, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery." 

An  incantation  so  serene, 
So  innocent,  befits  the  scene: 
There 's  magic  in  that  small  bird's  note — 
See,  there  he  flits— the  Yellow-throat; 
A  living  sunbeam,  tipped  with  wings, 
A  spark  of  light  that  shines  and  sings 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery." 

You  prophet  with  a  pleasant  name, 
If  out  of  Mary-land  you  came, 
You  know  the  way  that  thither  goes 
Where  Mary's  lovely  garden  grows: 
Fly  swiftly  back  to  her,  I  pray, 
And  try  to  call  her  down  this  way, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery!" 


20  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

Tell  her  to  leave  her  cockle-shells, 
And  all  her  little  silver  bells 
That  blossom  into  melody, 
And  all  her  maids  less  fair  than  she. 
She  does  not  need  these  pretty  things, 
For  everywhere  she  comes,  she  brings 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery  I " 

The  woods  are  greening  overhead, 
And  flowers  adorn  each  mossy  bed; 
The  waters  babble  as  they  run — 
One  thing  is  lacking,  only  one: 
If  Mary  were  but  here  to-day, 
I  would  believe  your  charming  lay, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery  /" 

Along  the  shady  road  I  look — 
Who  's  coming  now  across  the  brook  ? 
A  woodland  maid,  all  robed  in  white — 
The  leaves  dance  round  her  with  delight, 
The  stream  laughs  out  beneath  her  feet- 
Sing,  merry  bird,  the  charm  's  complete, 

"  Witchery — witchery — witchery!  " 
1895. 


THE  HERMIT  THRUSH  21 


THE   HERMIT   THRUSH 

O  WONDERFUL!    How  liquid  clear 
The  molten  gold  of  that  ethereal  tone, 
Floating  and  falling  through  the  wood  alone, 
A  hermit-hymn  poured  out  for  God  to  hear! 

O  holy,  holy,  holy!    Hyaline, 

Long  light,  low  light,  glory  of  eventide! 

Love  far  away,  far  up, — up, — love  divine! 

Little  love,  too,  for  ever,  ever  near, 

Warm  love,  earth  love,  tender  love  of  mine, 

In  the  leafy  dark  where  you  hide, 

You  are  mine, — mine, — mine! 

Ah,  my  beloved,  do  you  feel  with  me 
The  hidden  virtue  of  that  melody, 
The  rapture  and  the  purity  of  love, 
The  heavenly  joy  that  can  not  find  the  word? 
Then,  while  we  wait  again  to  hear  the  bird, 
Come  very  near  to  me,  and  do  not  move, — 
Now,  hermit  of  the  woodland,  fill  anew 
The  cool,  green  cup  of  air  with  harmony, 
And  we  will  drink  the  wine  of  love  with  you. 

May,  1908. 


22  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


THE  VEERY 

THE  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood  were  pouring, 
When  first  I  heard  the  nightingale  a  long-lost  love  deploring. 
So  passionate,  so  full  of  pain,  it  sounded  strange  and  eerie; 
I  longed  to  hear  a  simpler  strain, — the  wood  notes  of  the  veery. 

The  laverock  sings  a  bonny  lay  above  the  Scottish  heather; 
It  sprinkles  down  from  far  away  like  light  and  love  together; 
He  drops  the  golden  notes  to  greet  his  brooding  mate,  his  dearie; 
I  only  know  one  song  more  sweet, — the  vespers  of  the  veery. 

In  English  gardens,  green  and  bright  and  full  of  fruity  treasure, 
I  heard  the  blackbird  with  delight  repeat  his  merry  measure: 
The  ballad  was  a  pleasant  one,  the  tune  was  loud  and  cheery, 
And  yet,  with  every  setting  sun,  I  listened  for  the  veery. 

But  far  away,  and  far  away,  the  tawny  thrush  is  singing; 
New  England  woods,  at  close  of  day,  with  that  clear  chant  are 

ringing: 

And  when  my  light  of  life  is  low,  and  heart  and  flesh  are  weary, 
I  fain  would  hear,  before  I  go,  the  wood-notes  of  the  veery. 
1895. 


DULCIORA  23 


DULCIORA 

A  TEAR  that  trembles  for  a  little  while 
Upon  the  trembling  eyelid,  till  the  world 
Wavers  within  its  circle  like  a  dream, 
Holds  more  of  meaning  in  its  narrow  orb 
Than  all  the  distant  landscape  that  it  blurs. 

A  smile  that  hovers  round  a  mouth  beloved, 
Like  the  faint  pulsing  of  the  Northern  Light, 
And  grows  in  silence  to  an  amber  dawn, 
Born  in  the  sweetest  depths  of  trustful  eyes, 
Is  dearer  to  the  soul  than  sun  or  star. 

A  joy  that  falls  into  the  hollow  heart 
From  some  far-lifted  height  of  love  unseen, 
Unknown,  makes  a  more  perfect  melody 
Than  hidden  brooks  that  murmur  in  the  dusk, 
Or  fall  athwart  the  cliff  with  wavering  gleam. 

Ah,  not  for  their  own  sake  are  earth  and  sky 
And  the  fair  ministries  of  Nature  dear, 
But  as  they  set  themselves  unto  the  tune 
That  fills  our  life;  as  light  mysterious 
Flows  from  within  and  glorifies  the  world. 


24  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

For  so  a  common  wayside  blossom,  touched 
With  tender  thought,  assumes  a  grace  more  sweet 
Than  crowns  the  royal  lily  of  the  South; 
And  so  a  well-remembered  perfume  seems 
The  breath  of  one  who  breathes  in  Paradise. 
1872. 


MATINS 

FLOWERS  rejoice  when  night  is  done, 
Lift  their  heads  to  greet  the  sun; 
Sweetest  looks  and  odours  raise, 
In  a  silent  hymn  of  praise. 

So  my  heart  would  turn  away 
From  the  darkness  to  the  day; 
Lying  open  in  God's  sight 
As  a  flower  adores  the  light. 


A  NOON  SONG  25 


A  NOON   SONG 

THERE  are  songs  for  the  morning  and  songs  for  the  night, 

For  sunrise  and  sunset,  the  stars  and  the  moon; 
But  who  will  give  praise  to  the  fulness  of  light, 
And  sing  us  a  song  of  the  glory  of  noon? 
Oh,  the  high  noon,  the  clear  noon, 

The  noon  with  golden  crest; 
When  the  blue  sky  burns,  and  the  great  sun  turns 
With  his  face  to  the  way  of  the  west! 

How  swiftly  he  rose  in  the  dawn  of  his  strength; 
How  slowly  he  crept  as  the  morning  wore  by; 
Ah,  steep  was  the  climbing  that  led  him  at  length 
To  the  height  of  his  throne  in  the  wide  summer  sky. 
Oh,  the  long  toil,  the  slow  toil, 

The  toil  that  may  not  rest, 

Till  the  sun  looks  down  from  his  journey's  crown, 
To  the  wonderful  way  of  the  west! 

Then  a  quietness  falls  over  meadow  and  hill, 
The  wings  of  the  wind  in  the  forest  are  furled, 

The  river  runs  softly,  the  birds  are  all  still, 
The  workers  are  resting  all  over  the  world. 


26  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

Oh,  the  good  hour,  the  kind  hour, 

The  hour  that  calms  the  breast! 
Little  inn  half-way  on  the  road  of  the  day, 

Where  it  follows  the  turn  to  the  west! 

There  's  a  plentiful  feast  in  the  maple-tree  shade, 

The  lilt  of  a  song  to  an  old-fashioned  tune, 
The  talk  of  a  friend,  or  the  kiss  of  a  maid, 
To  sweeten  the  cup  that  we  drink  to  the  noon. 
Oh,  the  deep  noon,  the  full  noon, 

Of  all  the  day  the  best! 
When  the  blue  sky  burns,  and  the  great  sun  turns 

To  his  home  by  the  way  of  the  west 
1906. 


THE  AFTER-ECHO  27 


THE  AFTER-ECHO 

How  long  the  echoes  love  to  play 
Around  the  shore  of  silence,  as  a  wave 
Retreating  circles  down  the  sand! 
One  after  one,  with  sweet  delay, 
The  mellow  sounds  that  cliff  and  island  gave, 
Have  lingered  in  the  crescent  bay, 
Until,  by  lightest  breezes  fanned, 
They  float  far  off  beyond  the  dying  day 
And  leave  it  still  as  death. 

But  hark,— 
Another  singing  breath 
Comes  from  the  edge  of  dark; 

A  note  as  clear  and  slow 
As  falls  from  some  enchanted  bell, 
Or  spirit,  passing  from  the  world  below, 
That  whispers  back,  Farewell. 

So  in  the  heart, 
When,  fading  slowly  down  the  past, 

Fond  memories  depart, 
And  each  that  leaves  it  seems  the  last; 


28  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

Long  after  all  the  rest  are  flown, 
Returns  a  solitary  tone, — 
The  after-echo  of  departed  years, — 
And  touches  all  the  soul  to  tears. 
1871. 


WINGS   OF  A  DOVE  29 


WINGS   OF  A   DOVE 

I 

AT  sunset,  when  the  rosy  light  was  dying 

Far  down  the  pathway  of  the  west, 
I  saw  a  lonely  dove  in  silence  flying, 
To  be  at  rest. 

Pilgrim  of  air,  I  cried,  could  I  but  borrow 
Thy  wandering  wings,  thy  freedom  blest, 
I'd  fly  away  from  every  careful  sorrow, 
And  find  my  rest. 

• 
II 

But  when  the  filmy  veil  of  dusk  was  falling, 

Home  flew  the  dove  to  seek  his  nest, 
Deep  in  the  forest  where  his  mate  was  calling 
To  love  and  rest. 

Peace,  heart  of  mine!  no  longer  sigh  to  wander; 

Lose  not  thy  life  in  barren  quest. 
There  are  no  happy  islands  over  yonder; 

Come  home  and  rest. 
1874. 


30  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


IF   ALL  THE   SKIES 

IF  all  the  skies  were  sunshine, 
Our  faces  would  be  fain 

To  feel  once  more  upon  them 
The  cooling  plash  of^rain. 

If  all  the  world  were  music, 
Our  hearts  would  often  long 

For  one  sweet  strain  of  silence, 
To  break  the  endless  song. 

If  life  were  always  merry, 
Our  souls  would  seek  relief, 

And  rest  from  weary  laughter 
In  the  quiet  arms  of  grief. 


SCHOOL  31 


SCHOOL 

I  PUT  my  heart  to  school 
In  the  world  where  men  grow  wise: 
"Go  out,"  I  said,  "and  learn  the  rule; 
"Come  back  when  you  win  a  prize." 

My  heart  came  back  again: 
"Now  where  is  the  prize?"  I  cried.—- 
"The  rule  was  false,  and  the  prize  was  pain, 
"And  the  teacher's  name  was  Pride." 

I  put  my  heart  to  school 

In  the  woods  where  veeries  sing 

And  brooks  run  clear  and  cool, 

In  the  fields  where  wild  flowers  spring. 

"And  why  do  you  stay  so  long, 

"My  heart,  and  where  do  you  roam?" 

The  answer  came  with  a  laugh  and  a  song, — 

"I  find  this  school  is  home." 

April,  1901. 


32  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


THE   PARTING   AND   THE   COMING   GUEST 

WHO  watched  the  worn-out  Winter  die? 

Who,  peering  through  the  window-pane 

At  nightfall,  under  sleet  and  rain 
Saw  the  old  graybeard  totter  by? 
Who  listened  to  his  parting  sigh, 

The  sobbing  of  his  feeble  breath, 

His  whispered  colloquy  with  Death, 

And  when  his  all  of  life  was  done 
Stood  near  to  bid  a  last  good-bye? 

Of  all  his  former  friends  not  one 
Saw  the  forsaken  Winter  die. 

Who  welcomed  in  the  maiden  Spring? 

Who  heard  her  footfall,  swift  and  light 

As  fairy-dancing  in  the  night? 
Who  guessed  what  happy  dawn  would  bring 
The  flutter  of  her  blue-bird's  wing,      ,„ 
The  blossom  of  her  mayflower-face 

To  brighten  every  shady  place? 

One  morning,  down  the  village  street, 
"Oh,  here  am  I,"  we  heard  her  sing, — 

And  none  had  been  awake  to  greet 
The  coming  of  the  maiden  Spring. 


THE  PARTING  AND  THE  COMING  GUEST  33 

But  look,  her  violet  eyes  are  wet 

With  bright,  unf alien,  dewy  tears; 

And  in  her  song  my  fancy  hears 
A  note  of  sorrow  trembling  yet. 
Perhaps,  beyond  the  town,  she  met 

Old  Winter  as  he  limped  away 

To  die  forlorn,  and  let  him  lay 

His  weary  head  upon  her  knee, 

And  kissed  his  forehead  with  regret 

For  one  so  gray  and  lonely, — see, 
Her  eyes  with  tender  tears  are  wet. 

And  so,  by  night,  while  we  were  all  at  rest, 
I  think  the  coming  sped  the  parting  guest. 

1873- 


34  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


SPRING   IN  THE   NORTH 


AH,  who  will  tell  me,  in  these  leaden  days, 

Why  the  sweet  Spring  delays, 

And  where  she  hides, — the  dear  desire 

Of  every  heart  that  longs 
For  bloom,  and  fragrance,  and  the  ruby  fire 
Of  maple-buds  along  the  misty  hills, 
And  that  immortal  call  which  fills 

The  waiting  wood  with  songs? 
The  snow-drops  came  so  long  ago, 

It  seemed  that  Spring  was  near! 

But  then  returned  the  snow 
With  biting  winds,  and  earth  grew  sere, 

And  sullen  clouds  drooped  low 
To  veil  the  sadness  of  a  hope  deferred: 
Then  rain,  rain,  rain,  incessant  rain 

Beat  on  the  window-pane, 
Through  which  I  watched  the  solitary  bird 
That  braved  the  tempest,  buffeted  and  tossed 
With  rumpled  feathers  down  the  wind  again. 

Oh,  were  the  seeds  all  lost 
When  winter  laid  the  wild  flowers  in  their  tomb  ? 


SPRING  IN  THE  NORTH  35 

I  searched  the  woods  in  vain 
For  blue  hepaticas,  and  trilliums  white, 
And  trailing  arbutus,  the  Spring's  delight, 
Starring  the  withered  leaves  with  rosy  bloom. 

But  every  night  the  frost 
To  all  my  longing  spoke  a  silent  nay, 
And  told  me  Spring  was  far  away. 
Even  the  robins  were  too  cold  to  sing, 
Except  a  broken  and  discouraged  note, — 
Only  the  tuneful  sparrow,  on  whose  throat 
Music  has  put  her  triple  finger-print, 
Lifted  his  head  and  sang  my  heart  a  hint, — 
"Wait,  wait,  wait!  oh,  wait  a  while  for  Spring!" 

II 

But  now,  Carina,  what  divine  amends 

For  all  delay!    What  sweetness  treasured  up, 

What  wine  of  joy  that  blends 
A  hundred  flavours  in  a  single  cup, 
Is  poured  into  this  perfect  day! 
For  look,  sweet  heart,  here  are  the  early  flowers 

That  lingered  on  their  way, 
Thronging  in  haste  to  kiss  the  feet  of  May, 
Entangled  with  the  bloom  of  later  hours, — 
Anemones  and  cinque-foils,  violets  blue 
And  white,  and  iris  richly  gleaming  through 


36  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

The  grasses  of  the  meadow,  and  a  blaze 
Of  butter-cups  and  daisies  in  the  field, 

Filling  the  air  with  praise, 
As  if  a  chime  of  golden  bells  had  pealed! 

The  frozen  songs  within  the  breast 
Of  silent  birds  that  hid  in  leafless  woods, 

Melt  into  rippling  floods 

Of  gladness  unrepressed. 
Now  oriole  and  blue-bird,  thrush  and  lark, 
Warbler  and  wren  and  vireo, 
Mingle  their  melody;   the  living  spark 
Of  Love  has  touched  the  fuel  of  desire, 
And  every  heart  leaps  up  in  singing  fire. 

It  seems  as  if  the  land 
Were  breathing  deep  beneath  the  sun's  caress, 

Trembling  with  tenderness, 

While  all  the  woods  expand, 
In  shimmering  clouds  of  rose  and  gold  and  green; 
To  veil  a  joy  too  sacred  to  be  seen. 


Ill 


Come,  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
True  love,  long  sought  and  found  at  last, 
And  lead  me  deep  into  the  Spring  divine 

That  makes  amends  for  all  the  wintry  past. 


SPRING  IN  THE  NORTH  37 

For  all  the  flowers  and  songs  I  feared  to  miss 

Arrive  with  you; 
And  in  the  lingering  pressure  of  your  kiss 

My  dreams  come  true; 
And  in  the  promise  of  your  generous  eyes 

I  read  the  mystic  sign 

Of  joy  more  perfect  made 

Because  so  long  delayed, 
And  bliss  enhanced  by  rapture  of  surprise. 
Ah,  think  not  early  love  alone  is  strong; 
He  loveth  best  whose  heart  has  learned  to  wait: 
Dear  messenger  of  Spring  that  tarried  long, 
You  're  doubly  dear  because  you  come  so  late. 


38  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


SPRING   IN   THE   SOUTH 

Now  in  the  oak  the  sap  of  life  is  welling, 

Tho'  to  the  bough  the  rusty  leafage  clings; 
Now  on  the  elm  the  misty  buds  are  swelling; 

Every  little  pine- wood  grows  alive  with  wings; 
Blue-jays  are  fluttering,  yodeling  and  crying, 

Meadow-larks  sailing  low  above  the  faded  grass, 
Red-birds  whistling  clear,  silent  robins  flying, — 

Who  has  waked  the  birds  up  ?    What  has  come  to  pass  ? 

Last  year's  cotton-plants,  desolately  bowing, 

Tremble  in  the  March-wind,  ragged  and  forlorn; 
Red  are  the  hillsides  of  the  early  ploughing, 

Gray  are  the  lowlands,  waiting  for  the  corn. 
Earth  seems  asleep,  but  she  is  only  feigning; 

Deep  in  her  bosom  thrills  a  sweet  unrest; 
Look  where  the  jasmine  lavishly  is  raining 

Jove's  golden  shower  into  Danae's  breast! 

Now  on  the  plum-tree  a  snowy  bloom  is  sifted, 
Now  on  the  peach-tree,  the  glory  of  the  rose, 

Far  o'er  the  hills  a  tender  haze  is  drifted, 
Full  to  the  brim  the  yellow  river  flows. 


SPRING   IN  THE   SOUTH  39 

Dark  cypress  boughs  with  vivid  jewels  glisten, 
Greener  than  emeralds  shining  in  the  sun. 

Whence  comes  the  magic?    Listen,  sweetheart,  listen! 
The  mocking-bird  is  singing:   Spring  is  begun. 

Hark,  in  his  song  no  tremor  of  misgiving! 

All  of  his  heart  he  pours  into  his  lay, — 
"Love,  love,  love,  and  pure  delight  of  living: 

Winter  is  forgotten:   here's  a  happy  day!" 
Fair  in  your  face  I  read  the  flowery  presage, 

Snowy  on  your  brow  and  rosy  on  your  mouth: 
Sweet  in  your  voice  I  hear  the  season's  message, — 

Love,  love,  love,  and  Spring  in  the  South! 
1904. 


40  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


THE  FALL   OF   THE   LEAVES 

I 
IN  warlike  pomp,  with  banners  flowing, 

The  regiments  of  autumn  stood: 
I  saw  their  gold  and  scarlet  glowing 

From  every  hillside,  every  wood. 

Above  the  sea  the  clouds  were  keeping 
Their  secret  leaguer,  gray  and  still; 

They  sent  their  misty  vanguard  creeping 
With  muffled  step  from  hill  to  hill. 

All  day  the  sullen  armies  drifted 
Athwart  the  sky  with  slanting  rain; 

At  sunset  for  a  space  they  lifted, 
With  dusk  they  settled  down  again 

II 

At  dark  the  winds  began  to  blow 
With  mutterings  distant,  low; 

From  sea  and  sky  they  called  their  strength, 
Till  with  an  angry,  broken  roar, 
Like  billows  on  an  unseen  shore, 
Their  fury  burst  at  length. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAVES 

I  heard  through  the  night 
The  rush  and  the  clamour; 

The  pulse  of  the  fight 
Like  blows  of  Thor's  hammer; 

The  pattering  flight 

Of  the  leaves,  and  the  anguished 

Moan  of  the  forest  vanquished. 

At  daybreak  came  a  gusty  song: 
"Shout!  the  winds  are  strong. 
The  little  people  of  the  leaves  are  fled. 
Shout!    The  Autumn  is  dead!" 

Ill 

The  storm  is  ended!    The  impartial  sun 
Laughs  down  upon  the  battle  lost  and  won, 
And  crowns  the  triumph  of  the  cloudy  host 
In  rolling  lines  retreating  to  the  coast. 

But  we,  fond  lovers  of  the  woodland  shade, 
And  grateful  friends  of  every  fallen  leaf, 
Forget  the  glories  of  the  cloud-parade, 
And  walk  the  ruined  woods  in  quiet  grief. 

For  ever  so  our  thoughtful  hearts  repeat 
On  fields  of  triumph  dirges  of  defeat; 
And  still  we  turn  on  gala-days  to  tread 
Among  the  rustling  memories  of  the  dead. 
1874. 


42  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

A  SILKEN  curtain  veils  the  skies, 
And  half  conceals  from  pensive  eyes 

The  bronzing  tokens  of  the  fall; 
A  calmness  broods  upon  the  hills, 
And  summer's  parting  dream  distils 

A  charm  of  silence  over  all. 

The  stacks  of  corn,  in  brown  array, 
Stand  waiting  through  the  tranquil  day, 

Like  tattered  wigwams  on  the  plain; 
The  tribes  that  find  a  shelter  there 
Are  phantom  peoples,  forms  of  air, 

And  ghosts  of  vanished  joy  and  pain. 

At  evening  when  the  crimson  crest 
Of  sunset  passes  down  the  West, 

I  hear  the  whispering  host  returning; 
On  far-off  fields,  by  elm  and  oak, 
I  see  the  lights,  I  smell  the  smoke, — 

The  Camp-fires  of  the  Past  are  burning. 

Tertius  and  Henry  van  Dyke. 
November,  1903. 


A  NOVEMBER  DAISY  43 


A  NOVEMBER   DAISY 

AFTERTHOUGHT  of  summer's  bloom! 
Late  arrival  at  the  feast, 
Coming  when  the  songs  have  ceased 
And  the  merry  guests  departed, 
Leaving  but  an  empty  room, 
Silence,  solitude,  and  gloom! 
Are  you  lonely,  heavy-hearted; 
You,  the  last  of  all  your  kind, 
Nodding  in  the  autumn  wind; 
Now  that  all  your  friends  are  flown, 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone? 

Nay,  I  wrong  you,  little  flower, 
Reading  mournful  mood  of  mine 
In  your  looks,  that  give  no  sign 
Of  a  spirit  dark  and  cheerless! 
You  possess  the  heavenly  power 
That  rejoices  in  the  hour. 
Glad,  contented,  free,  and  fearless. 
Lift  a  sunny  face  to  heaven 
When  a  sunny  day  is  given! 
Make  a  summer  of  your  own, 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone! 


44  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

Once  the  daisies  gold  and  white 
Sea-like  through  the  meadow  rolled: 
Once  my  heart  could  hardly  hold 
All  its  pleasures.     I  remember, 
In  the  flood  of  youth's  delight 
Separate  joys  were  lost  to  sight. 
That  was  summer!    Now  November 
Sets  the  perfect  flower  apart; 
Gives  each  blossom  of  the  heart 
Meaning,  beauty,  grace  unknown, — 
Blooming  late  and  all  alone. 
November,  1899 


A  SNOW  SONG  45 


A  SNOW-SONG 

DOES  the  snow  fall  at  sea? 
Yes,  when  the  north  winds  blow, 
When  the  wild  clouds  fly  low, 
Out  of  each  gloomy  wing, 
Silently  glimmering, 
Over  the  stormy  sea 
Falleth  the  snow. 

Does  the  snow  hide  the  sea? 
Nay,  on  the  tossing  plains 
Never  a  flake  remains; 
Drift  never  resteth  there; 
Vanishing  everywhere, 
Into  the  hungry  sea 
Falleth  the  snow. 

What  means  the  snow  at  sea? 
Whirled  in  the  veering  blast, 
Thickly  the  flakes  drive  past; 
Each  like  a  childish  ghost 
Wavers,  and  then  is  lost; 
In  the  forgetful  sea 
Fadeth  the  snow. 

1875- 


46  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


ALPINE  SONNETS 

I 
THE   GLACIER 

Ax  dawn  in  silence  moves  the  mighty  stream, 
The  silver-crested  waves  no  murmur  make; 
But  far  away  the  avalanches  wake 

The  rumbling  echoes,  dull  as  in  a  dream; 

Their  momentary  thunders,  dying,  seem 
To  fall  into  the  stillness,  flake  by  flake, 
And  leave  the  hollow  air  with  naught  to  break 

The  frozen  spell  of  solitude  supreme. 

At  noon  unnumbered  rills  begin  to  spring 
Beneath  the  burning  sun,  and  all  the  walls 

Of  all  the  ocean-blue  crevasses  ring 
With  liquid  lyrics  of  their  waterfalls; 

As  if  a  poet's  heart  had  felt  the  glow 

Of  sovereign  love,  and  song  began  to  flow. 

ZERMATT  1872. 


THE  SNOW-FIELD  47 

II 
THE  SNOW-FIELD 

WHITE  Death  had  laid  his  pall  upon  the  plain, 

And  crowned  the  mountain-peaks  like  monarchs  dead; 

The  vault  of  heaven  was  glaring  overhead 
With  pitiless  light  that  filled  my  eyes  with  pain; 
And  while  I  vainly  longed,  and  looked  in  vain 

For  sign  or  trace  of  life,  my  spirit  said, 

"Shall  any  living  thing  that  dares  to  tread 
This  royal  lair  of  Death  escape  again?" 

But  even  then  I  saw  before  my  feet 

A  line  of  pointed  footprints  in  the  snow: 

Some  roving  chamois,  but  an  hour  ago, 

Had  passed  this  way  along  his  journey  fleet, 

And  left  a  message  from  a  friend  unknown 

To  cheer  my  pilgrim-heart  no  more  alone. 

ZERMATT,  1872. 


48  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

III 
MOVING  BELLS 

I  LOVE  the  hour  that  comes,  with  dusky  hair 
And  dewy  feet,  along  the  Alpine  dells 
To  lead  the  cattle  forth.    A  thousand  bells 

Go  chiming  after  her  across  the  fair 

And  flowery  uplands,  while  the  rosy  flare 
Of  sunset  on  the  snowy  mountain  dwells, 
And  valleys  darken,  and  the  drowsy  spells 

Of  peace  are  woven  through  the  purple  air. 

Dear  is  the  magic  of  this  hour:  she  seems 
To  walk  before  the  dark  by  falling  rills, 

And  lend  a  sweeter  song  to  hidden  streams; 
She  opens  all  the  doors  of  night,  and  fills 

With  moving  bells  the  music  of  my  dreams, 
That  wander  far  among  the  sleeping  hills. 

GSTAAD,  August,  1909. 


ROSLIN  AND  HAWTHORNDEN  49 


ROSLIN  AND  HAWTHORNDEN 

FAIR  Roslin  Chapel,  how  divine 
The  art  that  reared  thy  costly  shrine! 
Thy  carven  columns  must  have  grown 
By  magic,  like  a  dream  in  stone. 

Yet  not  within  thy  storied  wall 
Would  I  in  adoration  fall, 
So  gladly  as  within  the  glen 
That  leads  to  lovely  Hawthornden. 

A  long-drawn  aisle,  with  roof  of  green 
And  vine-clad  pillars,  while  between, 
The  Esk  runs  murmuring  on  its  way, 
In  living  music  night  and  day. 

Within  the  temple  of  this  wood 

The  martyrs  of  the  covenant  stood, 

And  rolled  the  psalm,  and  poured  the  prayer, 

From  Nature's  solemn  altar-stair. 

EDINBURGH,  1877. 


50  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 


LIGHT  BETWEEN  THE  TREES 

LONG,  long,  long  the  trail 

Through  the  brooding  forest-gloom, 
Down  the  shadowy,  lonely  vale 
Into  silence,  like  a  room 

Where  the  light  of  life  has  fled, 
And  the  jealous  curtains  close 
Round  the  passionless  repose 
Of  the  silent  dead. 

Plod,  plod,  plod  away, 

Step  by  step  in  mouldering  moss; 
Thick  branches  bar  the  day 
Over  languid  streams  that  cross 

Softly,  slowly,  with  a  sound 
Like  a  smothered  weeping, 
In  their  aimless  creeping 
Through  enchanted  ground. 

"Yield,  yield,  yield  thy  quest," 
Whispers  through  the  woodland  deep; 

"Come  to  me  and  be  at  rest; 
I  am  slumber,  I  am  sleep." 


LIGHT  BETWEEN  THE  TREES  51 

Then  the  weary  feet  would  fail, 
But  the  never-daunted  will 
Urges  "Forward,  forward  still! 

Press  along  the  trail!'* 

Breast,  breast,  breast  the  slope! 

See,  the  path  is  growing  steep. 
Hark!  a  little  song  of  hope 
Where  the  stream  begins  to  leap. 

Though  the  forest,  far  and  wide, 
Still  shuts  out  the  bending  blue, 
We  shall  finally  win  through, 
Cross  the  long  divide. 

On,  on,  on  we  tramp! 

Will  the  journey  never  end? 
Over  yonder  lies  the  camp; 
Welcome  waits  us  there,  my  friend. 

Can  we  reach  it  ere  the  night  ? 
Upward,  upward,  never  fear! 
Look,  the  summit  must  be  near; 
See  the  line  of  light! 

Red,  red,  red  the  shine 

Of  the  splendour  in  the  west, 
Glowing  through  the  ranks  of  pine, 

Clear  along  the  mountain-crest! 


52  ^ONGS  OF  OUT  DOORS 

Long,  long,  long  the  trail 
Out  of  sorrow's  lonely  vale; 
But  at  last  the  traveller  sees 
Light  between  the  trees! 
March,  1904. 


THE  LILY  OF  YORROW  S3 


THE  LILY  OF  YORROW 

DEEP  in  the  heart  of  the  forest  the  lily  of  Yorrow  is  growing; 
Blue  is  its  cup  as  the  sky,  and  with  mystical  odour  o'erflowing; 
Faintly  it  falls  through  the  shadowy  glades  when  the  south 
wind  is  blowing. 

Sweet  are  the  primroses  pale  and  the  violets  after  a  shower; 
Sweet  are  the  borders  of  pinks  and  the  blossoming  grapes  on 

the  bower; 
Sweeter  by  far  is  the  breath  of  that  far-away  woodland  flower. 

Searching  and  strange  in  its  sweetness,  it  steals  like  a  perfume 

enchanted 

Under  the  arch  of  the  forest,  and  all  who  perceive  it  are  haunted, 
Seeking  and  seeking  for  ever,  till  sight  of  the  lily  is  granted. 

Who  can  describe  how  it  grows,  with  its  chalice  of  lazuli 

leaning 
Over  a  crystalline  spring,  where  the  ferns  and  the  mosses  are 

greening  ? 
Who  can  imagine  its  beauty,  or  utter  the  depth  of  its  meaning  ? 


54  SONGS   OUT  OF  DOORS 

Calm  of  the  journeying  stars,  and  repose  of  the  mountains 

olden, 

Joy  of  the  swift-running  rivers,  and  glory  of  sunsets  golden, 
Secrets  that  cannot  be  told  in  the  heart  of  the  flower  are  holden. 

Surely  to  see  it  is  peace  and  the  crown  of  a  life-long  endeavour; 
Surely  to  pluck  it  is  gladness, — but  they  who  have  found  it 

can  never 
Tell  of  the  gladness  and  peace:   they  are  hid  from  our  vision 

for  ever. 

'Twas  but  a  moment  ago  that  a  comrade  was  wandering  near 

me: 
Turning  aside  from  the  pathway  he  murmured  a  greeting  to 

cheer  me, — 
Then  he  was  lost  in  the  shade,  and  I  called  but  he  did  not 

hear  me. 

Why  should  I  dream  he  is  dead,  and  bewail  him  with  passion- 
ate sorrow? 

Surely  I  know  there  is  gladness  in  finding  the  lily  of  Yorrow: 
He  has  discovered  it  first,  and  perhaps  I  shall  find  it  to-morrow. 
1894. 


GOD  OF  THE  OPEN  AIR  55 


ODE 

GOD   OF  THE   OPEN  AIR 

I 
THOU  who  hast  made  thy  dwelling  fair 

With  flowers  below,  above  with  starry  lights, 
And  set  thine  altars  everywhere, — 

On  mountain  heights, 
In  woodlands  dim  with  many  a  dream, 

Jn  valleys  bright  with  springs, 
And  on  the  curving  capes  of  every  stream: 
Thou  who  hast  taken  to  thyself  the  wings 

Of  morning,  to  abide 
Upon  the  secret  places  of  the  sea, 

And  on  far  islands,  where  the  tide 
Visits  the  beauty  of  untrodden  shores, 
Waiting  for  worshippers  to  come  to  thee 

In  thy  great  out-of-doors! 
To  thee  I  turn,  to  thee  I  make  my  prayer, 
God  of  the  open  air. 

II 
Seeking  for  thee,  the  heart  of  man 

Lonely  and  longing  ran, 
In  that  first,  solitary  hour, 

When  the  mysterious  power 


56  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

To  know  and  love  the  wonder  of  the  morn 
Was  breathed  within  him,  and  his  soul  was  bora; 
And  thou  didst  meet  thy  child, 
Not  in  some  hidden  shrine, 
But  in  the  freedom  of  the  garden  wild, 

And  take  his  hand  in  thine, — 
There  all  day  long  in  Paradise  he  walked, 
And  in  the  cool  of  evening  with  thee  talked. 


Ill 


Lost,  long  ago,  that  garden  bright  and  pure, 
Lost,  that  calm  day  too  perfect  to  endure, 
And  lost  the  child-like  love  that  worshipped  and  was 

sure! 

For  men  have  dulled  their  eyes  with  sin, 
And  dimmed  the  light  of  heaven  with  doubt, 
And  built  their  temple  walls  to  shut  thee  in, 
And  framed  their  iron  creeds  to  shut  thee  out. 
But  not  for  thee  the  closing  of  the  door, 
O  Spirit  unconfined! 
Thy  ways  are  free 
As  is  the  wandering  wind, 
And  thou  hast  wooed  thy  children,  to  restore 

Their  fellowship  with  thee, 
In  peace  of  soul  and  simpleness  of  mind. 


GOD   OF  THE  OPEN  AIR  57 

IV 

Joyful  the  heart  that,  when  the  flood  rolled  by, 
Leaped  up  to  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky; 
And  glad  the  pilgrim,  in  the  lonely  night, 
For  whom  the  hills  of  Haran,  tier  on  tier, 
Built  up  a  secret  stairway  to  the  height 
Where  stars  like  angel  eyes  were  shining  clear. 
From  mountain-peaks,  in  many  a  land  and  age, 

Disciples  of  the  Persian  seer 
Have  hailed  the  rising  sun  and  worshipped  thee; 
And  wayworn  followers  of  the  Indian  sage 
Have  found  the  peace  of  God  beneath  a  spreading  tree. 


But  One,  but  One, — ah,  Son  most  dear, 
And  perfect  image  of  the  Love  Unseen, — 

Walked  every  day  in  pastures  green, 
And  all  his  life  the  quiet  waters  by, 
Reading  their  beauty  with  a  tranquil  eye. 
To  him  the  desert  was  a  place  prepared 
For  weary  hearts  to  rest; 

The  hillside  was  a  temple  blest; 

The  grassy  vale  a  banquet-room 
Where  he  could  feed  and  comfort  many  a  guest. 


58  SONGS  OUT  OF  DOORS 

With  him  the  lily  shared 
The  vital  joy  that  breathes  itself  in  bloom; 
And  every  bird  that  sang  beside  the  nest 
Told  of  the  love  that  broods  o'er  every  living  thing. 

He  watched  the  shepherd  bring 
His  flock  at  sundown  to  the  welcome  fold, 

The  fisherman  at  daybreak  fling 
His  net  across  the  waters  gray  and  cold, 
And  all  day  long  the  patient  reaper  swing 
His  curving  sickle  through  the  harvest-gold. 
So  through  the  world  the  foot-path  way  he  trod, 
Breathing  the  air  of  heaven  in  every  breath; 
And  in  the  evening  sacrifice  of  death 
Beneath  the  open  sky  he  gave  his  soul  to  God. 
Him  will  I  trust,  and  for  my  Master  take; 
Him  will  I  follow;   and  for  his  dear  sake, 

God  of  the  open  air, 
To  thee  I  make  my  prayer. 

VI 

From  the  prison  of  anxious  thought  that  greed  has  builded, 
From  the  fetters  that  envy  has  wrought  and  pride  has  gilded, 
From  the  noise  of  the  crowded  ways  and  the  fierce  confusion, 
From  the  folly  that  wastes  its  days  in  a  world  of  illusion, 
(Ah,  but  the  life  is  lost  that  frets  and  languishes  there!) 
I  would  escape  and  be  free  in  the  joy  of  the  open  air. 


GOD   OF  THE  OPEN  AIR  59 

By  the  breadth  of  the  blue  that  shines  in  silence  o'er  me, 
By  the  length  of  the  mountain-lines  that  stretch  before  me, 
By  the  height  of  the  cloud  that  sails,  with  rest  in  motion, 
Over  the  plains  and  the  vales  to  the  measureless  ocean, 
(Oh,  how  the  sight  of  the  greater  things  enlarges  the  eyes!) 
Draw  me  away  from  myself  to  the  peace  of  the  hills  and  skies. 

While  the  tremulous  leafy  haze  on  the  woodland  is  spreading, 
And  the  bloom  on  the  meadow  betrays  where  May  has  been 

treading; 

While  the  birds  on  the  branches  above,  and  the  brooks  flow- 
ing under, 

Are  singing  together  of  love  in  a  world  full  of  wonder, 
(Lo,  in  the  magic  of  Springtime,  dreams  are  changed  into 

truth!) 
Quicken  my  heart,  and  restore  the  beautiful  hopes  of  youth. 

By  the  faith  that  the  wild-flowers  show  when  they  bloom 

unbidden, 

By  the  calm  of  the  river's  flow  to  a  goal  that  is  hidden, 
By  the  strength  of  the  tree  that  clings  to  its  deep  foundation, 
By  the  courage  of  birds'  light  wings  on  the  long  migration, 
(Wonderful  spirit  of  trust  that  abides  in  Nature's  breast!) 
Teach  me  how  to  confide,  and  live  my  life,  and  rest. 

For  the  comforting  warmth  of  the  sun  that  my  body  embraces, 
For  the  cool  of  the  waters  that  run  through  the  shadowy  places, 


60  SONGS  OF  OUT  DOORS 

For  the  balm  of  the  breezes  that  brush  my  face  with  their 

fingers, 

For  the  vesper-hymn  of  the  thrush  when  the  twlight  lingers, 
For  the  long  breath,  the  deep  breath,  the  breath  of  a  heart 

without  care, — 
I  will  give  thanks  and  adore  thee,  God  of  the  open  air! 

VII 

These  are  the  gifts  I  ask 

Of  thee,  Spirit  serene: 

Strength  for  the  daily  task, 

Courage  to  face  the  road, 

Good  cheer  to  help  me  bear  the  traveller's  load, 
And,  for  the  hours  of  rest  that  come  between, 
An  inward  joy  in  all  things  heard  and  seen. 

These  are  the  sins  I  fain 

Would  have  thee  take  away: 

Malice,  and  cold  disdain, 

Hot  anger,  sullen  hate, 
Scorn  of  the  lowly,  envy  of  the  great, 
And  discontent  that  casts  a  shadow  gray 
On  all  the  brightness  of  the  common  day. 

These  are  the  things  I  prize 

And  hold  of  dearest  worth: 

Light  of  the  sapphire  skies, 

Peace  of  the  silent  hills, 


GOD   OF  THE  OPEN  AIR  61 

Shelter  of  forests,  comfort  of  the  grass, 
Music  of  birds,  murmur  of  little  rills, 
Shadows  of  cloud  that  swiftly  pass, 
And,  after  showers, 
The  smell  of  flowers 
And  of  the  good  brown  earth, — 
And  best  of  all,  along  the  way,  friendship  and  mirth. 

So  let  me  keep 

These  treasures  of  the  humble  heart 
In  true  possession,  owning  them  by  love; 
And  when  at  last  I  can  no  longer  move 

Among  them  freely,  but  must  part 
From  the  green  fields  and  from  the  waters  clear, 

Let  me  not  creep 

Into  some  darkened  room  and  hide 
From  all  that  makes  the  world  so  bright  and  dear; 
But  throw  the  windows  wide 
To  welcome  in  the  light; 
And  while  I  clasp  a  well-beloved  hand, 

Let  me  once  more  have  sight 
Of  the  deep  sky  and  the  far-smiling  land, — 

Then  gently  fall  on  sleep, 
And  breathe  my  body  back  to  Nature's  care, 
My  spirit  out  to  thee,  God  of  the  open  air. 
1904. 


STORIES   IN  VERSE 


THE  TOILING   OF  FELIX 

A  LEGEND  ON  A  NEW  SAYING  OF  JESUS 


In  the  rubbish  heaps  of  the  ancient  city  of  Oxyrhynchus,  near  the 
River  Nile,  a  party  of  English  explorers,  in  the  winter  of  1897,  discovered 
a  fragment  of  a  papyrus  book,  written  in  the  second  or  third  century, 
and  hitherto  unknown.  This  single  leaf  contained  parts  of  seven  short 
sentences  of  Christ,  each  introduced  by  the  words,  "Jesus  says."  It 
is  to  the  fifth  of  these  Sayings  of  Jesus  that  the  following  poem  refers. 


THE  TOILING  OF  FELIX 

I 
PRELUDE 

HEAR  a  word  that  Jesus  spake 
Eighteen  hundred  years  ago, 
Where  the  crimson  lilies  blow 
Round  the  blue  Tiberian  lake: 
There  the  bread  of  life  He  brake, 
Through  the  fields  of  harvest  walking 
With  His  lowly  comrades,  talking 
Of  the  secret  thoughts  that  feed 
Weary  souls  in  time  of  need. 
Art  thou  hungry?     Come  and  take; 
Hear  the  word  that  Jesus  spake ! 

'Tis  the  sacrament  of  labour,  bread  and  wine  divinely  blest; 
Friendship's  food  and  sweet  refreshment,  strength  and  courage, 
joy  and  rest. 

But  this  word  the  Master  said 

Long  ago  and  far  away, 

Silent  and  forgotten  lay 
Buried  with  the  silent  dead, 
Where  the  sands  of  Egypt  spread 

Sea-like,  tawny  billows  heaping 

Over  ancient  cities  sleeping, 
67 


68  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

While  the  River  Nile  between 
Rolled  its  summer  flood  of  green 
Rolled  its  autumn  flood  of  red: 
There  the  word  the  Master  said, 

Written  on  a  frail  papyrus,  wrinkled,  scorched  by  fire,  and  torn, 
Hidden  in  God's  hand  was  waiting  for  its  resurrection  morn. 

Now  at  last  the  buried  word 
By  the  delving  spade  is  found, 
Sleeping  in  the  quiet  ground. 
Now  the  call  of  life  is  heard: 
Rise  again,  and  like  a  bird, 
Fly  abroad  on  wings  of  gladness 
Through  the  darkness  and  the  sadness, 
Of  the  toiling  age,  and  sing 
Sweeter  than  the  voice  of  Spring, 
Till  the  hearts  of  men  are  stirred 
By  the  music  of  the  word, — 

Gospel  for  the  heavy-laden,   answer  to  the  labourer's  cry: 
"Raise  the  stone,  and  thou  shall  find  me;  cleave  the  wood  and 
there  am  /." 

II 

LEGEND 

BROTHER-MEN  who  look  for  Jesus,  long  to  see  Him  close  and 

clear, 
Hearken  to  the  tale  of  Felix,  how  he  found  the  Master  near. 


THE  TOILING   OF  FELIX  69 

Born  in  Egypt,  'neath  the  shadow  of  the  crumbling  gods  of 

night, 
He    forsook    the   ancient   darkness,  turned   his  young    heart 

toward  the  Light. 

Seeking  Christ,  in  vain  he  waited  for  the  vision  of  the  Lord; 
Vainly  pondered  many  volumes  where  the  creeds  of  men  were 
stored; 

Vainly  shut  himself  in  silence,  keeping  vigil  night  and  day; 
Vainly  haunted  shrines  and  churches  where  the  Christians 
came  to  pray. 

One  by  one  he  dropped  the  duties  of  the  common  life  of  care, 
Broke  the  human  ties  that  bound  him,  laid  his  spirit  waste 
and  bare, 

Hoping  that  the  Lord  would  enter  that  deserted  dwelling- 
place, 
And  reward  the  loss  of  all  things  with  the  vision  of  His  face. 

Still  the  blessed  vision  tarried;   still  the  light  was  unrevealed; 
Still  the  Master,  dim  and  distant,  kept  His  countenance  con- 
cealed. 

Fainter  grew  the  hope  of  finding,  wearier  grew  the  fruitless 

quest; 
Prayer  and  penitence  and  fasting  gave  no  comfort,  brought 

no  rest. 


70  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Lingering  in  the  darkened  temple,  ere  the  lamp  of  faith  went 

out, 
Felix  knelt  before  the  altar,  lonely,  sad,  and  full  of  doubt. 

"Hear  me,  O  thou  mighty  Master,"  from  the  altar-step  he 

cried, 
"Let  my  one  desire  be  granted,  let  my  hope  be  satisfied! 

"Only  once  I  long  to  see  Thee,  in  the  fulness  of  Thy  grace: 
Break  the  clouds  that  now  enfold  Thee  with  the  sunrise  of 
Thy  face! 

"All  that  men  desire  and  treasure  have  I  counted  loss  for 

Thee; 
Every  hope  have  I  forsaken,  save  this  one,  my  Lord  to  see. 

"Loosed  the  sacred  bands  of  friendship,  solitary  stands  my 

heart; 
Thou  shalt  be  my  sole  companion  when  I  see  Thee  as  Thou 

art. 

"From  Thy  distant  throne  in  glory,  flash  upon  my  inward 

sight, 
Fill  the  midnight  of  my  spirit  with  the  splendour  of  Thy  light. 

"All  Thine  other  gifts  and  blessings,   common  mercies,    I 

disown; 
Separated  from  my  brothers,  I  would'  see  Thy  face  alone. 


.       THE  TOILING   OF  FELIX  71 

"I  have  watched  and  I  have  waited  as  one  watcheth  for  the 

morn: 
Still  the  veil  is  never  lifted,  still  Thou  leavest  me  forlorn. 

"Now  I  seek  Thee  in  the  desert,  where  the  holy  hermits  dwell; 
There,  beside  the  saint  Serapion,  I  will  find  a  lonely  cell. 

"There  at  last  Thou  wilt  be  gracious;    there  Thy  presence, 

long-concealed, 
In  the  solitude  and  silence  to  my  heart  shall  stand  revealed. 

"Thou  wilt  come,  at  dawn  or  twilight,  o'er  the  rolling  waves 

of  sand; 
I  shall  see  Thee  close  beside  me,  I  shall  touch  Thy  pierced 

hand. 

"Lo,  Thy  pilgrim  kneels  before  Thee;    bless  my  journey 

with  a  word; 
Tell  me  now  that  if  I  follow  I  shall  find  Thee,  O  my  Lord!" 

Felix  listened:  through  the  darkness,  like  a  murmur  of  the  wind, 
Came  a  gentle  sound  of  stillness:  "Never  faint,  and  thou  shalt 
find." 

Long  and  toilsome  was  his  journey  through  the  heavy  land 

of  heat, 
Egypt's  blazing  sun  above  him,  blistering  sand  beneath  his 

feet. 


72  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Patiently  he  plodded  onward,  from  the  pathway  never  erred, 
Till  he  reached  the  river-fastness  called  the  Mountain  of  the 
Bird. 

There  the  tribes  of  air  assemble,  once  a  year,  their  noisy  flock, 
Then,  departing,  leave  their  sentinel  perched  upon  the  highest 
rock. 

Far  away,  on  joyful  pinions,  over  land  and  sea  they  fly; 
But  the  watcher  on  the  summit  lonely  stands  against  the  sky. 

There  the  eremite  Serapion  in  a  cave  had  made  his  bed; 
There  the  faithful  bands   of   pilgrims  sought  his  blessing, 
brought  him  bread. 

Month  by  month,  in  deep  seclusion,  hidden  in  the  rocky  cleft, 
Dwelt  the  hermit,  fasting,  praying;  once  a  year  the  cave  he  left. 

On  that  day  a  happy  pilgrim,  chosen  out  of  all  the  band, 
Won  a  special  sign  of  favour  from  the  holy  hermit's  hand. 

Underneath  the  narrow  window,  at  the  doorway  closely  sealed, 
While  the  afterglow  of  sunset  deepened  round  him,  Felix 
kneeled. 

"Man  of  God,  of  men  most  holy,  thou  whose  gifts  cannot  be 

priced ! 
Grant  me  thy  most  precious  guerdon;  tell  me  how  to  find  the 

Christ." 


THE  TOILING   OF   FELIX  73 

Breathless,  Felix  bowed  and  listened,  but  no  answering  voice 

he  heard; 
Darkness  folded,  dumb  and  deathlike,  round  the  Mountain  of 

the  Bird. 

Then  he  said,  "The  saint  is  silent;  he  would  teach  my  soul  to 

wait: 
I  will  tarry  here  in  patience,  like  a  beggar  at  his  gate." 

Near  the  dwelling  of  the  hermit  Felix  found  a  rude  abode 
In  a  shallow  tomb  deserted,  close  beside  the  pilgrim-road. 

So   the   faithful   pilgrims   saw   him   waiting    there   without 

complaint, — 
Soon  they  learned  to  call  him  holy,  fed  him  as  they  fed  the  saint. 

Day  by  day  he  watched  the  sunrise  flood  the  distant  plain 

with  gold, 
While  the  River  Nile  beneath  him,  silvery  coiling,  seaward 

rolled. 

Night  by  night  he  saw  the  planets  range  their  glittering  court 

on  high, 
Saw  the  moon,  with  queenly  motion,  mount  her  throne  and  rule 

the  sky. 

Morn  advanced  and  midnight  fled,  in  visionary  pomp  attired; 
Never  morn  and  never  midnight  brought  the  vision  long- 
desired. 


74  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Now  at  last  the  day  is  dawning  when  Serapion  makes  his  gift; 
Felix  kneels  before  the  threshold,  hardly  dares  his  eyes  to  lift. 

Now  the  cavern  door  uncloses,  now  the  saint  above  him  stands, 
Blesses  him  without  a  word,  and  leaves  a  token  in  his  hands. 

'Tis  the  guerdon  of  thy  waiting!    Look,  thou  happy  pilgrim, 

look! 
Nothing  but  a  tattered  fragment  of  an  old  papyrus  book. 

Read !   perchance  the  clue  to  guide  thee  hidden  in  the  words 

may  lie: 
"Raise  the  stone,  and  thou  shall  find  me;  cleave  the  wood,  and 

there  am  I." 

Can  it  be  the  mighty  Master  spake  such  simple  words  as  these  ? 
Can  it  be  that  men  must  seek  Him  at  their  toil  'mid  rocks  and 
trees  ? 

Disappointed,  heavy-hearted,  from  the  Mountain  of  the  Bird 
Felix  mournfully  descended,  questioning  the  Master's  word. 

Not  for  him  a  sacred  dwelling,  far  above  the  haunts  of  men: 
He  must  turn  his  footsteps  backward  to  the  common  life  again. 

From  a  quarry  near  the  river,  hollowed  out  below  the  hills, 
Rose  the  clattering  voice  of  labour,  clanking  hammers,  clink- 
ing drills. 


THE  TOILING   OF  FELIX  75 

Dust,  and  noise,  and  hot  confusion  made  a  Babel  of  the  spot: 
There,  among  the  lowliest  workers,  Felix  sought  and  found  his 
lot. 

Now  he  swung  the  ponderous  mallet,  smote  the  iron  in  the 

rock — 
Muscles  quivering,  tingling,  throbbing— blow  on  blow  and 

shock  on  shock; 

Now  he  drove  the  willow  wedges,  wet  them  till  they  swelled  and 

split, 
With  their  silent  strength,  the  fragment,  sent  it  thundering 

down  the  pit. 

Now  the  groaning  tackle  raised  it;    now  the  rollers  made  it 

slide; 
Harnessed  men,  like  beasts  of  burden,  drew  it  to  the  river-side. 

Now  the  palm-trees  must  be  riven,  massive  timbers  hewn  and 

dressed  ; 
Rafts  to  bear  the  stones  in  safety  on  the  rushing  river's  breast. 

Axe  and  auger,  saw  and  chisel,  wrought  the  will  of  man  in  wood: 
'Mid  the  many-handed  labour  Felix  toiled,  and  found  it  good. 

Every  day  the  blood  ran  fleeter  through  his  limbs  and  round  his 

heart ; 
Every  night  he  slept  the  sweeter,  knowing  he  had  done  his  part. 


76  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Dreams  of  solitary  saintship  faded  from  him;  but,  instead, 
Came  a  sense  of  daily  comfort  in  the  toil  for  daily  bread. 

Far  away,  across  the  river,  gleamed  the  white  walls  of  the  town 
Whither  all  the  stones  and  timbers  day  by  day  were  drifted 
down. 

There  the  workman  saw  his  labour  taking  form  and  bearing 

fruit, 
Like  a  tree  with  splendid  branches  rising  from  a  humble  root. 

Looking  at  the   distant  city,   temples,   houses,   domes,   and 

towers, 
Felix  cried  in  exultation:  "All  the  mighty  work  is  ours. 

"Every  mason  in  the  quarry,  every  builder  on  the  shore, 
Every  chopper  in  the  palm-grove,  every  raftsman  at  the  oar, 

"Hewing  wood  and  drawing  water,  splitting  stones  and  cleaving 

sod, 
All  the  dusty  ranks  of  labour,  in  the  regiment  of  God, 

"March  together  toward  His  triumph,  do  the  task  His  hands 

prepare: 
Honest  toil  is  holy  service;  faithful  work  is  praise  and  prayer." 

While  he  bore  the  heat  and  burden  Felix  felt  the  sense  of  rest 
Flowing  softly  like  a  fountain,  deep  within  his  weary  breast; 


THE   TOILING   OF  FELIX  77 

Felt  the  brotherhood  of  labour,  rising  round  him  like  a  tide, 
Overflow  his  heart  and  join  him  to  the  workers  at  his  side. 

Oft  he  cheered  them  with  his  singing  at  the  breaking  of  the 

light, 
Told  them  tales  of  Christ  at  noonday,  taught  them  words  of 

prayer  at  night. 

Once  he  bent  above  a  comrade  fainting  in  the  mid-day  heat, 
Sheltered  him  with  woven  palm-leaves,  gave  him  water,  cool 
and  sweet. 

Then  it  seemed,  for  one  swift  moment,  secret  radiance  filled  the 

place; 
Underneath  the  green  palm-branches  flashed  a  look  of  Jesus' 

face. 

Once  again,  a  raftsman,  slipping,  plunged  beneath  the  stream 

and  sank; 
Swiftly  Felix  leaped  to  rescue,  caught  him,  drew  him  toward  the 

bank — 

Battling  with  the  cruel  river,  using  all  his  strength  to  save — 
Did  he  dream?  or  was  there  One  beside  him  walking  on  the 
wave? 

Now  at  last  the  work  was  ended,  grove  deserted,  quarry  stilled; 
Felix  journeyed  to  the  city  that  his  hands  had  helped  to  build. 


78  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

In  the  darkness  of  the  temple,  at  the  closing  hour  of  day, 
As  of  old  he  sought  the  altar,  as  of  old  he  knelt  to  pray: 

"Hear  me,  O  Thou  hidden  Master!    Thou  hast  sent  a  word 

to  me; 
It  is  written — Thy  commandment — I  have  kept  it  faithfully. 

"Thou  hast  bid  me  leave  the  visions  of  the  solitary  life, 
Bear  my  part  in  human  labour,  take  my  share  in   human 
strife. 

"I  have  done  Thy  bidding,  Master;  raised  the  rock  and  felled 

the  tree, 
Swung  the  axe  and  plied  the  hammer,  working  every  day  for 

Thee. 

"Once  it  seemed  I  saw  Thy  presence  through  the  bending 

palm-leaves  gleam; 
Once  upon  the  flowing  water — Nay,  I  know  not,  'twas  a  dream ! 

"This  I  know:  Thou  hast  been  near  me:  more  than  this  I  dare 
not  ask. 

Though  I  see  Thee  not,  I  love  Thee.  Let  me  do  Thy  hum- 
blest task!" 

Through  the  dimness  of  the  temple  slowly  dawned  a  mystic 

light; 
There  the  Master  stood  in  glory,  manifest  to  mortal  sight: 


THE   TOILING   OF  FELIX  79 

Hands  that  bore  the  mark  of  labour,  brow  that  bore  the  print 

of  care; 
Hands  of  power,  divinely  tender;  brow  of  light,  divinely  fair. 

"Hearken,  good  and  faithful  servant,  true  disciple,  loyal  friend! 
Thou  hast  followed  me  and  found  me;  I  will  keep  thee  to  the 
end. 

"Well  I  know  thy  toil  and  trouble;  often  weary,  fainting,  worn, 
I  have  lived  the  life  of  labour,  heavy  burdens  I  have  borne. 

"Never  in  a  prince's  palace  have  I  slept  on  golden  bed, 
Never  in  a  hermit's  cavern  have  I  eaten  unearned  bread. 

"Born  within  a  lowly  stable,  where  the  cattle  round  me  stood, 
Trained  a  carpenter  in  Nazareth,  I  have  toiled,  and  found  it 
good. 

"They  who  tread  the  path  of  labour  follow  where  my  feet  have 

trod; 
They  who  work  without  complaining  do  the  holy  will  of  God. 

"Where  the  many  toil  together,  there  am  I  among  my  own; 
Where  the  tired  workman  sleepeth,  there  am  I  with  him  alone. 

"I,  the  peace  that  passeth  knowledge,  dwell  amid  the  daily 

strife; 
I,  the  bread  of  heaven,  am  broken  in  the  sacrament  of  life. 


8o  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

"Every  task,  however  simple,  sets  the  soul  that  does  it  free; 
Every  deed  of  love  and  mercy,  done  to  man,  is  done  to  me. 

"Thou  hast  learned  the  open  secret;  thou  hast  come  to  me  for 

rest; 
With  thy  burden,  in  thy  labour,  thou  art  Felix,  doubly  blest. 

"Nevermore  thou  needest  seek  me;  I  am  with  thee  every- 
where; 

Raise  the  stone,  and  thou  shall  find  me;  cleave  the  wood,  and  I 
am  there." 

Ill 
ENVOY 

The  legend  of  Felix  is  ended,  the  toiling  of  Felix  is  done; 
The  Master  has  paid  him  his  wages,  the  goal  of  his  journey  is 

won; 

He  rests,  but  he  never  is  idle;  a  thousand  years  pass  like  a  day, 
In  the  glad  surprise  of  the  Paradise  where  work  is  sweeter  than 

play. 

Yet  often  the  King  of  that  country  comes  out  from  his  tireless 
host, 

And  walks  in  this  world  of  the  weary  as  if  He  loved  it  the  most; 

For  here  in  the  dusty  confusion,  with  eyes  that  are  heavy  and 
dim, 

He  meets  again  the  labouring  men  who  are  looking  and  long- 
ing for  Him. 


THE  TOILING   OF  FELIX  81 

He  cancels  the  curse  of  Eden,  and  brings  them  a  blessing  in- 
stead: 

Blessed  are  they  that  labour,  for  Jesus  partakes  of  their  bread 

He  puts  His  hand  to  their  burdens,  He  enters  their  homes  at 
night: 

Who  does  his  best  shall  have  as  a  guest  the  Master  of  life  and 
light. 

And  courage  will  come  with  His  presence,  and  patience  return 

at  His  touch, 

And  manifold  sins  be  forgiven  to  those  who  love  Him  much ; 
The  cries  of  envy  and  anger  will  change  to  the  songs  of  cheer, 
The  toiling  age  will  forget  its  rage  when  the  Prince  of  Peace 

draws  near.. 

This  is  the  gospel  of  labour,  ring  it,  ye  bells  of  the  kirk! 

The  Lord  of  Love  came  down  from  above,  to  live  with  the  men 

who  work. 

This  is  the  rose  that  He  planted,  here  in  the  thorn-curst  soil: 
Heaven  is  blest  with  perfect  rest,  but  the  blessing  of  Earth  is 

toil. 
1898. 


82  STORIES   IN  VERSE 


VERA 
I 

A  SILENT  world,— yet  full  of  vital  joy 
Expressed  in  rhythmic  movements  manifold, 
And  sunbeams  flashing  on  the  face  of  things 
Like  sudden  smilings  of  divine  delight, — 
A  world  of  many  sorrows  too,  revealed 
In  fading  flowers  and  withering  leaves  and  dark 
Tear-laden  clouds,  and  tearless,  clinging  mists 
That  hung  above  the  earth  too  sad  to  weep, — 
A  world  of  fluent  change,  and  changeless  flow, 
And  infinite  suggestion  of  new  thoughts, 
Reflected  in  the  mirror  of  the  heart 
With  shifting  colours  and  dissolving  forms, — 
A  world  of  many  meanings  but  no  words, 
A  silent  world  was  Vera's  home. 

For  her 

The  inner  doors  of  sound  were  closely  sealed. 
The  outer  portals,  delicate  as  shells 
Suffused  with  faintest  rose  of  far-off  morn, 
Like  underglow  of  daybreak  in  the  sea, — 
The  ear-gates  of  the  garden  of  her  soul, 
Shaded  by  drooping  tendrils  of  brown  hair, 
Waited  in  vain  for  messengers  to  pass, 


VERA  83 

And  thread  the  labyrinth  with  flying  feet, 
And  swiftly  knock  upon  the  inmost  door, 
And  enter  in,  and  speak  the  mystic  word. 
But  through  those  gates  no  message  ever  came. 
Only  with  eyes  did  she  behold  and  see, — 
With  eyes  as  luminous  and  bright  and  brown 
As  waters  of  a  woodland  river, — eyes 
That  questioned  so  they  almost  seemed  to  speak, 
And  answered  so  they  almost  seemed  to  hear, — 
Only  with  wondering  eyes  did  she  behold 
The  silent  splendour  of  a  soundless  world. 

She  saw  the  great  wind  ranging  freely  down 

Interminable  archways  of  the  wood, 

While  tossing  boughs  and  bending  tree-tops  hailed 

His  coming:  but  no  sea- tuned  voice  of  pines, 

No  roaring  of  the  oaks,  no  silvery  song 

Of  poplars  or  of  birches,  followed  him. 

He  passed;  they  waved  their  arms  and  clapped  their  hands; 

But  all  was  still. 

The  torrents  from  the  hills 

Leaped  down  their  rocky  stairways,  like  wild  steeds 
Breaking  the  yoke  and  shaking  manes  of  foam. 
The  lowland  brooks  coiled  smoothly  through  the  fields, 
And  softly  spread  themselves  in  glistening  lakes 
Whose  ripples  merrily  danced  among  the  reeds. 


84  STORIES   IN  VERSE 

The  standing  waves  that  ever  keep  their  place 
In  the  swift  rapids,  curled  upon  themselves, 
And  seemed  about  to  break  and  never  broke; 
And  all  the  wandering  waves  that  fill  the  sea 
Came  buffeting  in  along  the  stony  shore, 
Or  plunging  in  along  the  level  sands, 
Or  creeping  in  along  the  winding  creeks 
And  inlets.     Yet  from  all  the  ceaseless  flow 
And  turmoil  of  the  restless  element 
Came  neither  song  of  joy  nor  sob  of  grief; 
For  there  were  many  waters,  but  no  voice. 

Silent  the  actors  all  on  Nature's  stage 
Performed  their  parts  before  her  watchful  eyes, 
Coming  and  going,  making  war  and  love, 
Working  and  playing,  all  without  a  sound. 
The  oxen  drew  their  load  with  swaying  necks, 
The  kine  came  sauntering  home  along  the  lane, 
The  nodding  sheep  were  led  from  field  to  fold, 
In  mute  obedience.    Down  the  woodland  track 
The  hounds  with  panting  sides  and  lolling  tongues 
Pursued  their  flying  prey  in  noiseless  haste. 
The  birds,  the  most  alive  of  living  things, 
The  quickest  to  respond  to  joy  and  fear, 
Mated,  and  built  their  nests,  and  reared  their  young, 
And  swam  the  flood  of  air  like  tiny  ships 


VERA  85 

Rising  and  falling  over  unseen  waves, 
And,  gathering  in  great  navies,  bore  away 
To  North  or  South,  without  a  note  of  song. 

All  these  were  Vera's  playmates,  and  she  loved 
To  watch  them,  wondering  oftentimes  how  well 
They  knew  their  parts,  and  how  the  drama  moved 
So  swiftly,  smoothly  on  from  scene  to  scene 
Without  confusion.    But  she  sometimes  dreamed 
There  must  be  something  hidden  in  the  play 
Unknown  to  her,  an  utterance  of  life 
More  clear  than  action  and  more  deep  than  looks. 
And  this  she  felt  most  deeply  when  she  watched 
Her  human  comrades  and  the  throngs  of  men, 
Who  met  and  parted  oft  with  moving  lips 
That  had  a  meaning  more  than  she  could  see. 
She  saw  a  lover  bend  above  a  maid, 
With  moving  lips;  and  though  he  touched  her  not 
A  sudden  rose  of  joy  bloomed  in  her  face. 
She  saw  a  hater  stand  before  his  foe 
And  move  his  lips;  whereat  the  other  shrank 
As  if  he  had  been  smitten  on  the  mouth. 
She  saw  the  regiments  of  toiling  men 
Marshalled  in  ranks  and  led  by  moving  lips. 
And  once  she  saw  a  sight  more  strange  than  all: 
A  crowd  of  people  sitting  charmed  and  still 


86  STORIES   IN  VERSE 

Around  a  little  company  of  men 

Who  touched  their  hands  in  measured,  rhythmic  time 

To  curious  instruments;  a  woman  stood 

Among  them,  with  bright  eyes  and  heaving  breast, 

And  lifted  up  her  face  and  moved  her  lips. 

Then  Vera  wondered  at  the  idle  play, 

But  when  she  looked  around,  she  saw  the  glow 

Of  deep  delight  on  every  face,  as  if 

Some  visitor  from  a  celestial  world 

Had  brought  glad  tidings.     But  to  her  alone 

No  angel  entered,  for  the  choir  of  sound 

Was  vacant  in  the  temple  of  her  soul, 

And  worship  lacked  her  golden  crown  of  song. 

So  when,  by  vision  baffled  and  perplexed, 
She  saw  that  all  the  world  could  not  be  seen, 
And  knew  she  could  not  know  the  whole  of  life 
Unless  a  hidden  gate  should  be  unsealed, 
She  felt  imprisoned.     In  her  heart  there  grew 
The  bitter  creeping  plant  of  discontent, 
The  plant  that  only  grows  in  prison  soil, 
Whose  root  is  hunger  and  whose  fruit  is  pain. 
The  springs  of  still  delight  and  tranquil  joy 
Were  drained  as  dry  as  desert  dust  to  feed 
That  never-flowering  vine,  whose  tendrils  clung 
With  strangling  touch  around  the  bloom  of  life 


VERA  87 

And  made  it  wither.     Vera  could  not  rest 
Within  the  limits  of  her  silent  world; 
Along  its  dumb  and  desolate  paths  she  roamed 
A  captive,  looking  sadly  for  escape. 

Now  in  those  distant  days,  and  in  that  land 

Remote,  there  lived  a  Master  wonderful, 

Who  knew  the  secret  of  all  life,  and  could, 

With  gentle  touches  and  with  potent  words, 

Open  all  gates  that  ever  had  been  sealed, 

And  loose  all  prisoners  whom  Fate  had  bound. 

Obscure  he  dwelt,  not  in  the  wilderness, 

But  in  a  hut  among  the  throngs  of  men, 

Concealed  by  meekness  and  simplicity. 

And  ever  as  he  walked  the  city  streets, 

Or  sat  in  quietude  beside  the  sea, 

Or  trod  the  hillsides  and  the  harvest  fields, 

The  multitude  passed  by  and  knew  him  not. 

But  there  were  some  who  knew,  and  turned  to  him 

For  help;  and  unto  all  who  asked,  he  gave. 

Thus  Vera  came,  and  found  him  in  the  field, 

And  knew  him  by  the  pity  in  his  face, 

And  knelt  to  him  and  held  him  by  one  hand, 

And  laid  the  other  hand  upon  her  lips 

In  mute  entreaty.    Then  she  lifted  up 

The  coils  of  hair  that  hung  about  her  neck 


88  STORIES   IN  VERSE 

And  bared  the  beauty  of  the  gates  of  sound, — 

Those  virgin  gates  through  which  no  voice  had  passed,- 

She  made  them  bare  before  the  Master's  sight, 

And  looked  into  the  kindness  of  his  face 

With  eyes  that  spoke  of  all  her  prisoned  pain, 

And  told  her  great  desire  without  a  word. 

The  Master  waited  long  in  silent  thought, 

As  one  reluctant  to  bestow  a  gift, 

Not  for  the  sake  of  holding  back  the  thing 

Entreated,  but  because  he  surely  knew 

Of  something  better  that  he  fain  would  give 

If  only  she  would  ask  it.     Then  he  stooped 

To  Vera,  smiling,  touched  her  ears  and  spoke: 

"Open,  fair  gates,  and  you,  reluctant  doors, 

Within  the  ivory  labyrinth  of  the  ear, 

Let  fall  the  bar  of  silence  and  unfold! 

Enter,  you  voices  of  all  living  things, 

Enter  the  garden  sealed, — but  softly,  slowly, 

Not  with  a  noise  confused  and  broken  tumult, — 

Come  in  an  order  sweet  as  I  command  you, 

And  bring  the  double  gift  of  speech  and  hearing." 

Vera  began  to  hear.    At  first  the  wind 
Breathed  a  low  prelude  of  the  birth  of  sound, 
As  if  an  organ  far  away  were  touched 


VERA  89 

.  By  unseen  fingers;  then  the  little  stream 
That  hurried  down  the  hillside,  swept  the  harp 
Of  music  into  merry,  tinkling  notes; 
And  then  the  lark  that  poised  above  her  head 
On  wings  a-quiver,  overflowed  the  air 
With  showers  of  song;  and  one  by  one  the  tones 
Of  all  things  living,  in  an  order  sweet, 
Without  confusion  and  with  deepening  power, 
Entered  the  garden  sealed.    And  last  of  all 
The  Master's  voice,  the  human  voice  divine, 
Passed  through  the  gates  and  called  her  by  her  name, 
And  Vera  heard. 

II 

What  rapture  of  new  life 
Must  come  to  one  for  whom  a  silent  world 
Is  suddenly  made  vocal,  and  whose  heart 
By  the  same  magic  is  awaked  at  once, 
Without  the  learner's  toil  and  long  delay, 
Out  of  a  night  of  dumbly  moving  dreams, 
Into  a  day  that  overflows  with  music! 
This  joy  was  Vera's;  and  to  her  it  seemed 
As  if  a  new  creative  morn  had  risen 
Upon  the  earth,  and  after  the  full  week 
When  living  things  unfolded  silently, 
And  after  the  long,  quiet  Sabbath  day, 


90  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

When  all  was  still,  another  day  had  dawned, 
And  through  the  calm  expectancy  of  heaven 
A  secret  voice  had  said,  "Let  all  things  speak." 
The  world  responded  with  an  instant  joy; 
And  all  the  unseen  avenues  of  sound 
Were  thronged  with  varying  forms  of  viewless  life. 

To  every  living  thing  a  voice  was  given 

Distinct  and  personal.    The  forest  trees 

Were  not  more  varied  in  their  shades  of  green 

Than  in  their  tones  of  speech;  and  every  bird 

That  nested  in  their  branches  had  a  song 

Unknown  to  other  birds  and  all  his  own. 

The  waters  spoke  a  hundred  dialects 

Of  one  great  language;  now  with  pattering  fall 

Of  raindrops  on  the  glistening  leaves,  and  now 

With  steady  roar  of  rivers  rushing  down 

To  meet  the  sea,  and  now  with  rhythmic  throb 

And  measured  tumult  of  tempestuous  waves, 

And  now  with  lingering  lisp  of  creeping  tides, — 

The  manifold  discourse  of  many  waters. 

But  most  of  all  the  human  voice  was  full 

Of  infinite  variety,  and  ranged 

Along  the  scale  of  life's  experience 

With  changing  tones,  and  notes  both  sweet  and  sad, 

All  fitted  to  express  some  unseen  thought, 


VERA  91 

Some  vital  motion  of  the  hidden  heart. 
So  Vera  listened  with  her  new-born  sense 
To  all  the  messengers  that  passed  the  gates, 
In  measureless  delight  and  utter  trust, 
Believing  that  they  brought  a  true  report 
From  every  living  thing  of  its  true  life, 
And  hoping  that  at  last  they  would  make  clear 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  world. 

But  soon  there  came  a  trouble  in  her  joy, 

A  cloud  of  doubt  across  her  sky  of  trust, 

A  note  discordant  that  dissolved  the  chord 

And  broke  the  bliss  of  hearing  into  pain. 

Not  from  the  harsher  sounds  and  voices  wild 

Of  anger  and  of  anguish,  that  reveal 

The  secret  strife  in  nature,  and  confess 

The  touch  of  sorrow  on  the  heart  of  life, — 

From  these  her  trouble  came  not.    For  in  these, 

However  sad,  she  felt  the  note  of  truth, 

And  truth,  though  sad,  is  always  musical. 

The  raging  of  the  tempest-ridden  sea, 

The  crash  of  thunder,  and  the  hollow  moan 

Of  winds  complaining  round  the  mountain-crags, 

The  shrill  and  quavering  cry  of  birds  of  prey, 

The  fiercer  roar  of  conflict-loving  beasts, — 

All  these  wild  sounds  are  potent  in  their  place 


92  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Within  life's  mighty  symphony;  the  charm 

Of  truth  attunes  them,  and  the  hearing  ear 

Finds  pleasure  in  their  rude  sincerity. 

Even  the  broken  and  tumultuous  noise 

That  rises  from  great  cities,  where  the  heart 

Of  human  toil  is  beating  heavily 

With  ceaseless  murmurs  of  the  labouring  pulse, 

Is  not  a  discord;  for  it  speaks  to  life 

Of  life  unfeigned,  and  full  of  hopes  and  fears, 

And  touched  through  all  the  trouble  of  its  notes 

With  something  real  and  therefore  glorious. 

One  voice  alone  of  all  that  sound  on  earth, 

Is  hateful  to  the  soul,  and  full  of  pain, — 

The  voice  of  falsehood.     So  when  Vera  heard 

This  mocking  voice,  and  knew  that  it  was  false; 

When  first  she  learned  that  human  lips  can  speak 

The  thing  that  is  not,  and  betray  the  ear 

Of  simple  trust  with  treachery  of  words; 

The  joy  of  hearing  withered  in  her  heart. 

For  now  she  felt  that  faithless  messengers 

Could  pass  the  open  and  unguarded  gates 

Of  sound,  and  bring  a  message  all  untrue, 

Or  half  a  truth  that  makes  the  deadliest  lie, 

Or  idle  babble,  neither  false  nor  true, 

But  hollow  to  the  heart,  and  meaningless. 


VERA  93 

She  heard  the  flattering  voices  of  deceit, 
That  mask  the  hidden  purposes  of  men 
With  fair  attire  of  favourable  words, 
And  hide  the  evil  in  the  guise  of  good. 
The  voices  vain  and  decorous  and  smooth, 
That  fill  the  world  with  empty-hearted  talk; 
The  foolish  voices,  wandering  and  confused, 
That  cannot  clearly  speak  the  thing  they  would, 
But  ramble  blindly  round  their  true  intent 
And  tangle  sense  in  hopeless  coils  of  sound, — 
All  these  she  heard,  and  with  a  sad  mistrust 
Began  to  doubt  the  value  of  her  gift. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  world,  the  living  world, 
Sincere,  and  deep,  and  real,  were  still  concealed, 
And  she,  within  the  prison  of  her  soul, 
Still  waiting  silently  to  hear  the  voice 
Of  perfect  knowledge  and  of  perfect  peace. 

So  with  the  burden  of  her  discontent 
She  turned  to  seek  the  Master  once  again, 
And  found  him  sitting  in  the  market-place, 
Half-hidden  in  the  shadow  of  a  porch, 
Alone  among  the  careless  crowd. 

She  spoke: 

"Thy  gift  was  great,  dear  Master,  and  my  heart 
Has  thanked  thee  many  times  because  I  hear. 


94  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

But  I  have  learned  that  hearing  is  not  all; 
For  underneath  the  speech  of  men,  there  flows 
Another  current  of  their  hidden  thoughts; 
Behind  the  mask  of  language  I  perceive 
The  eyes  of  things  unuttered;  and  I  feel 
The  throbbing  of  the  real  heart  of  the  world 
Beneath  the  robe  of  words.     Touch  me  again, 
O  Master,  with  thy  liberating  hand, 
And  free  me  from  the  bondage  of  deceit. 
Open  another  gate,  and  let  me  hear 
The  secret  thoughts  and  purposes  of  men; 
For  only  thus  my  heart  will  be  at  rest, 
And  only  thus,  at  last,  I  shall  perceive 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  world." 

The  Master's  face  was  turned  away  from  her; 
His  eyes  looked  far  away,  as  if  he  saw 
Something  beyond  her  sight;  and  yet  she  knew 
That  he  was  listening;  for  her  pleading  voice 
No  sooner  ceased  than  he  put  forth  his  hand 
To  touch  her  brow,  and  very  gently  spoke: 
"Thou  seekest  for  thyself  a  wondrous  gift, — 
The  opening  of  the  second  gate,  a  gift 
That  many  wise  men  have  desired  in  vain: 
But  some  have  found  it, — whether  well  or  ill 
For  their  own  peace,  they  have  attained  the  power 


VERA  95 

To  hear  unspoken  thoughts  of  other  men. 

And  thou  hast  begged  this  gift?    Thou  shalt  receive, — 

Not  knowing  what  thou  seekest, — it  is  thine: 

The  second  gate  is  open!    Thou  shalt  hear 

All  that  men  think  and  feel  within  their  hearts: 

Thy  prayer  is  granted,  daughter,  go  thy  way! 

But  if  thou  findest  sorrow  on  this  path, 

Come  back  again, — there  is  a  path  to  peace." 

Ill 

Beyond  our  power  of  vision,  poets  say, 
There  is  another  world  of  forms  unseen, 
Yet  visible  to  purer  eyes  than  ours. 
And  if  the  crystal  of  our  sight  were  clear, 
We  should  behold  the  mountain-slopes  of  cloud, 
The  moving  meadows  of  the  untilled  sea, 
The  groves  of  twilight  and  the  dales  of  dawn, 
And  every  wide  and  lonely  field  of  air, 
More  populous  than  cities,  crowded  close 
With  living  creatures  of  all  shapes  and  hues. 
But  if  that  sight  were  ours,  the  things  that  now 
Engage  our  eyes  would  seem  but  dull  and  dim 
Beside  the  wonders  of  our  new-found  world, 
And  we  should  be  amazed  and  overwhelmed 
Not  knowing  how  to  use  the  plenitude 
Of  vision. 


96  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

So  in  Vera's  soul,  at  first, 
The  opening  of  the  second  gate  of  sound 
Let  in  confusion  like  a  whirling  flood. 
The  murmur  of  a  myriad- throated  mob; 
The  trampling  of  an  army  through  a  place 
Where  echoes  hide;  the  sudden,  whistling  flight 
Of  an  innumerable  flock  of  birds 
Along  the  highway  of  the  midnight  sky; 
The  many-whispered  rustling  of  the  reeds 
Beneath  the  passing  feet  of  all  the  winds; 
The  long-drawn,  inarticulate,  wailing  cry 
Of  million-pebbled  beaches  when  the  lash 
Of  falling  waves  is  drawn  across  their  back, — 
All  these  were  less  bewildering  than  to  hear 
What  now  she  heard  at  once:  the  tangled  sound 
Of  all  that  moves  within  the  minds  of  men. 
For  now  there  was  no  measured  flow  of  words 
To  mark  the  time;  nor  any  interval 
Of  silence  to  repose  the  listening  ear. 
But  through  the  dead  of  night,  and  through  the  calm 
Of  weary  noon-tide,  through  the  solemn  hush 
That  fills  the  temple  in  the  pause  of  praise, 
And  through  the  breathless  awe  in  rooms  of  death, 
She  heard  the  ceaseless  motion  and  the  stir 
Of  never-silent  hearts,  that  fill  the  world 
With  interwoven  thoughts  of  good  and  ill, 


VERA  97 

With  mingled  music  of  delight  and  grief, 
With  songs  of  love,  and  bitter  cries  of  hate, 
With  hymns  of  faith,  and  dirges  of  despair, 
And  murmurs  deeper  and  more  vague  than  all, — 
Thoughts  that  are  born  and  die  without  a  name, 
Or  rather,  never  die,  but  haunt  the  soul, 
With  sad  persistence,  till  a  name  is  given. 
These  Vera  heard,  at  first  with  mind  perplexed 
And  half-benumbed  by  the  disordered  sound. 
But  soon  a  clearer  sense  began  to  pierce 
The  cloudy  turmoil  with  discerning  power. 
She  learned  to  know  the  tones  of  human  thought 
As  plainly  as  she  knew  the  tones  of  speech. 
She  could  divide  the  evil  from  the  good, 
Interpreting  the  language  of  the  mind, 
And  tracing  every  feeling  like  a  thread 
Within  the  mystic  web  the  passions  weave 
From  heart  to  heart  around  the  living  world. 

But  when  at  last  the  Master's  second  gift 
Was  perfected  within  her,  and  she  heard 
And  understood  the  secret  thoughts  of  men, 
A  sadness  fell  upon  her,  and  the  weight 
Of  an  intolerable  knowledge  pressed  her  down 
With  weary  wishes  to  know  more,  or  less. 
For  all  she  knew  was  like  a  broken  word 


98  STORIES   IN   VERSE 

Inscribed  upon  the  fragment  of  a  ring; 
And  all  she  heard  was  like  a  troubled  strain 
Preluding  music  that  is  never  played. 

Then  she  remembered  in  her  sad  unrest 

The  Master's  parting  word, — "a  path  to  peace," — 

And  turned  again  to  seek  him  with  her  grief. 

She  found  him  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills, 

Beside  a  little  spring  that  issued  forth 

From  broken  rocks  and  filled  an  emerald  cup 

With  never-failing  water.     There  he  sat, 

With  waiting  looks  that  welcomed  her  afar. 

"I  know  that  thou  hast  heard,  my  child,"  he  said, 

"For  all  the  wonder  of  the  world  of  sound 

Is  written  in  thy  face.     But  hast  thou  heard, 

Among  the  many  voices,  one  of  peace? 

And  is  thy  heart  that  hears  the  secret  thoughts, 

The  hidden  wishes  and  desires  of  men, 

Content  with  hearing?    Art  thou  satisfied?" 

"Nay,  Master,"  she  replied,  "thou  knowest  well 

That  I  am  not  at  rest,  nor  have  I  heard 

The  voice  of  perfect  peace;  but  what  I  hear 

Brings  me  disquiet  and  a  troubled  mind. 

The  evil  voices  in  the  souls  of  men, 

Voices  of  rage  and  cruelty  and  fear 

Have  not  dismayed  me;  for  I  have  believed 


VERA  99 

The  voices  of  the  good,  the  kind,  the  true, 

Are  more  in  number  and  excel  in  strength. 

There  is  more  love  than  hate,  more  hope  than  fear, 

In  the  deep  throbbing  of  the  human  heart. 

But  while  I  listen  to  the  troubled  sound, 

One  thing  torments  me,  and  destroys  my  rest 

And  presses  me  with  dull,  unceasing  pain. 

For  out  of  all  the  minds  of  all  mankind, 

There  rises  evermore  a  questioning  voice 

That  asks  the  meaning  of  this  mighty  world 

And  finds  no  answer, — asks,  and  asks  again, 

With  patient  pleading  or  with  wild  complaint, 

But  wakens  no  response,  except  the  sound 

Of  other  questions,  wandering  to  and  fro, 

From  other  souls  in  doubt.    And  so  this  voice 

Persists  above  all  others  that  I  hear, 

And  binds  them  up  together  into  one, 

Until  the  mingled  murmur  of  the  world 

Sounds  through  the  inner  temple  of  my  heart 

Like  an  eternal  question,  vainly  asked, 

By  every  human  soul  that  thinks  and  feels. 

This  is  the  heaviness  that  weighs  me  down, 

And  this  the  pain  that  will  not  let  me  rest. 

Therefore,  dear  Master,  shut  the  gates  again, 

And  let  me  live  in  silence  as  before! 

Or  else, — and  if  there  is  indeed  a  gate 


ioo  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Unopened  yet,  through  which  I  might  receive 
An  answer  in  the  voice  of  perfect  peace — " 

She  ceased;  and  in  her  upward  faltering  tone 
The  question  echoed. 

Then  the  Master  said: 
"There  is  another  gate,  not  yet  unclosed. 
For  through  the  outer  portal  of  the  ear 
Only  the  outer  voice  of  things  may  pass; 
And  through  the  middle  doorway  of  the  mind 
Only  the  half-formed  voice  of  human  thoughts. 
Uncertain  and  perplexed  with  endless  doubt; 
But  through  the  inmost  gate  the  spirit  hears 
The  voice  of  that  great  Spirit  who  is  Life. 
Beneath  the  tones  of  living  things  He  breathes 
A  deeper  tone  than  ever  ear  hath  heard; 
And  underneath  the  troubled  thoughts  of  men 
He  thinks  forever,  and  His  thought  is  peace. 
Behold,  I  touch  thee  once  again,  my  child: 
The  third  and  last  of  those  three  hidden  gates 
That  closed  around  thy  soul  and  shut  thee  in, 
Is  open  now,  and  thou  shalt  truly  hear." 

Then  Vera  heard.    The  spiritual  gate 
Was  opened  softly  as  a  full-blown  flower 
Unfolds  its  heart  to  welcome  in  the  dawn, 


VERA  101 

And  on  her  listening  face  there  shone  a  light 
Of  still  amazement  and  completed  joy 
In  the  full  gift  of  hearing. 

What  she  heard 

I  cannot  tell;  nor  could  she  ever  tell 
In  words;  because  all  human  words  are  vain, 
There  is  no  speech  nor  language,  to  express 
The  secret  messages  of  God,  that  make 
Perpetual  music  in  the  hearing  heart. 
Below  the  voice  of  waters,  and  above 
The  wandering  voice  of  winds,  and  underneath 
The  song  of  birds  and  all  the  varying  tones 
Of  living  things  that  fill  the  world  with  sound, 
God  spoke  to  her,  and  what  she  heard  was  peace. 

So  when  the  Master  questioned,  "Dost  thou  hear?" 

She  answered,  "Yea,  at  last  I  hear."    And  then 

He  asked  her  once  again,  "What  hearest  thou? 

What  means  the  voice  of  Life?"    She  answered,  "Love! 

For  love  is  life,  and  they  who  do  not  love 

Are  not  alive.    But  every  soul  that  loves, 

Lives  in  the  heart  of  God  and  hears  Him  speak." 


102  STORIES  IN  VERSE 


ANOTHER  CHANCE 

A  DRAMATIC  LYRIC 

COME,  give  me  back  my  life  again,  you  heavy-handed  Death ! 
Uncrook  your  fingers  from  my  throat,  and  let  me  draw  my 

breath. 

You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  now — too  soon  for  me  to  die — 
Ah,  loose  me  from  this  clutching  pain,  and  hear  the  reason  why. 

I  know  I've  had  my  forty  years,  and  wasted  every  one; 
And  yet,  I  tell  you  honestly,  my  life  is  just  begun; 
I've  walked  the  world  like  one  asleep,  a  dreamer  in  a  trance; 
But  now  you've  gripped  me  wide  awake — I  want  another 
chance. 

My  dreams  were  always  beautiful,  my  thoughts  were  high  and 

fine; 

No  life  was  ever  lived  on  earth  to  match  those  dreams  of  mine. 
And  would  you  wreck  them  unfulfilled?    What  folly,  nay, 

what  crime! 
You  rob  the  world,  you  waste  a  soul;  give  me  a  little  time. 

You'll  hear  me?     Yes,  I'm  sure  you  will,  my  hope  is  not  in 

vain: 
I  feel  the  even  pulse  of  peace,  the  sweet  relief  from  pain; 


ANOTHER   CHANCE  103 

The  black  fog  rolls  away  from  me;  I'm  free  once  more  to  plan: 
Another  chance  is  all  I  need  to  prove  myself  a  man ! 

The  world  is  full  of  warfare  'twixt  the  evil  and  the  good; 
I  watched  the  battle  from  afar  as  one  who  understood 
The  shouting  and  confusion,  the  bloody,  blundering  fight — 
How  few  there  are  that  see  it  clear,  how  few  that  wage  it  right! 

The  captains  flushed  with  foolish  pride,  the  soldiers  pale  with 

fear, 
The  faltering  flags,  the  feeble  fire  from  ranks  that  swerve  and 

veer, 
The  wild  mistakes,  the  dismal  doubts,  the  coward  hearts  that 

flee— 
The  good  cause  needs  a  nobler  knight  to  win  the  victory. 

A  man  whose  soul  is  pure  and  strong,  whose  sword  is  bright 

and  keen, 

Who  knows  the  splendour  of  the  fight  and  what  its  issues  mean; 
Who  never  takes  one  step  aside,  nor  halts,  though  hope  be  dim, 
But  cleaves  a  pathway  thro'  the  strife,  and  bids  men  follow  him. 

No  blot  upon  his  stainless  shield,  no  weakness  in  his  arm; 
No  sign  of  trembling  in  his  face  to  break  his  valour's  charm: 
A  man  like  this  could  stay  the  flight  and  lead  the  wavering  line; 
Ah,  give  me  but  a  year  of  life — I'll  make  that  glory  mine! 


io4  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Religion?    Yes,  I  know  it  well;    I've  heard  its  prayers  and 

creeds, 
And  seen  men  put  them  all  to  shame  with  poor,  half-hearted 

deeds. 

They  follow  Christ,  but  far  away;  they  wander  and  they  doubt. 
I'll  serve  him  in  a  better  way,  and  live  his  precepts  out. 

You  see,  I  waited  just  for  this;  I  could  not  be  content 
To  own  a  feeble,  faltering  faith  with  human  weakness  blent. 
Too  many  runners  in  the  race  move  slowly,  stumble,  fall; 
But  I  will  run  so  straight  and  swift  I  shall  outstrip  them  all. 

Oh,  think  what  it  will  mean  to  men,  amid  their  foolish  strife, 
To  see  the  clear,  unshadowed  light  of  one  true  Christian  life, 
Without  a  touch  of  selfishness,  without  a  taint  of  sin, — 
With  one  short  month  of  such  a  life  a  new  world  would  begin ! 

And  love! — I  often  dream  of  that — the  treasure  of  the  earth; 
How  little  they  who  use  the  coin  have  realised  its  worth ! 
'Twill  pay  all  debts,  enrich  all  hearts,  and  make  all  joys  secure. 
But  love,  to  do  its  perfect  work,  must  be  sincere  and  pure. 

My  heart  is  full  of  virgin  gold.     I'll  pour  it  out  and  spend 
My  hidden  wealth  with  open  hand  on  all  who  call  me  friend. 
Not  one  shall  miss  the  kindly  deed,  the  largess  of  relief, 
The  generous  fellowship  of  joy,  the  sympathy  of  grief. 


ANOTHER  CHANCE  105 

I'll  say  the  loyal,  helpful  things  that  make  life  sweet  and  fair, 
I'll  pay  the  gratitude  I  owe  for  human  love  and  care. 
Perhaps  I've  been  at  fault  sometimes — I'll  ask  to  be  forgiven, 
And  make  this  little  room  of  mine  seem  like  a  bit  of  heaven. 

For  one  by  one  I'll  call  my  friends  to  stand  beside  my  bed; 
I'll  speak  the  true  and  tender  words  so  often  left  unsaid; 
And  every  heart  shall  throb  and  glow,  all  coldness  melt  away 
Around  my  altar-fire  of  love — ah,  give  me  but  one  day! 

What's  that?     I've  had  another  day,  and  wasted  it  again? 
A  priceless  day  in  empty  dreams,  another  chance  in  vain? 
Thou  fool — this  night — it's  very  dark — the  last — this  choking 

breath — 
One  prayer — have  mercy  on  a  dreamer's  soul — God,  this  is 

death! 


io6  STORIES   IN  VERSE 


A  LEGEND   OF  SERVICE 

IT  pleased  the  Lord  of  Angels  (praise  His  name!) 

To  hear,  one  day,  report  from  those  who  came 

With  pitying  sorrow,  or  exultant  joy, 

To  tell  of  earthly  tasks  in  His  employ. 

For  some  were  grieved  because  they  saw  how  slow 

The  stream  of  heavenly  love  on  earth  must  flow; 

And  some  were  glad  because  their  eyes  had  seen, 

Along  its  banks,  fresh  flowers  and  living  green. 

At  last,  before  the  whiteness  of  the  throne 

The  youngest  angel,  Asmiel,  stood  alone; 

Nor  glad,  nor  sad,  but  full  of  earnest  thought, 

And  thus  his  tidings  to  the  Master  brought: 

"Lord,  in  the  city  Lupon  I  have  found 

"Three  servants  of  thy  holy  name,  renowned 

"Above  their  fellows.     One  is  very  wise, 

"With  thoughts  that  ever  range  beyond  the  skies; 

"And  one  is  gifted  with  the  golden  speech 

"That  makes  men  gladly  hear  when  he  will  teach; 

"And  one,  with  no  rare  gift  or  grace  endued, 

"Has  won  the  people's  love  by  doing  good. 

"With  three  such  saints  Lupon  is  trebly  blest; 

"But,  Lord,  I  fain  would  know,  which  loves  Thee  best?" 


A  LEGEND   OF  SERVICE  107 

Then  spake  the  Lord  of  Angels,  to  whose  look 

The  hearts  of  all  are  like  an  open  book: 

"In  every  soul  the  secret  thought  I  read, 

"And  well  I  know  who  loves  me  best  indeed. 

"But  every  life  has  pages  vacant  still, 

"Whereon  a  man  may  write  the  thing  he  will; 

"Therefore  I  read  the  record,  day  by  day, 

"And  wait  for  hearts  untaught  to  learn  my  way. 

"But  thou  shalt  go  to  Lupon,  to  the  three 

"Who  serve  me  there,  and  take  this  word  from  me: 

"Tell  each  of  them  his  Master  bids  him  go 

"Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow; 

"There  he  shall  find  a  certain  task  for  me: 

"But  what,  I  do  not  tell  to  them  nor  thee. 

"  Give  thou  the  message,  make  my  word  the  test, 

"And  crown  for  me  the  one  who  loves  me  best." 

Silent  the  angel  stood,  with  folded  hands, 

To  take  the  imprint  of  his  Lord's  commands; 

Then  drew  one  breath,  obedient  and  elate, 

And  passed  the  self-same  hour,  through  Lupon's  gate. 

First  to  the  Temple  door  he  made  his  way; 
And  there,  because  it  was  a  holy-day, 
He  saw  the  folk  in  thousands  thronging,  stirred 
By  ardent  thirst  to  hear  the  preacher's  word. 
Then,  while  the  people  whispered  Bernol's  name, 


io8  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Through  aisles  that  hushed  behind  him  Bernol  came; 

Strung  to  the  keenest  pitch  of  conscious  might, 

With  lips  prepared  and  firm,  and  eyes  alight. 

One  moment  at  the  pulpit  step  he  knelt 

In  silent  prayer,  and  on  his  shoulder  felt 

The  angel's  hand: — "The  Master  bids  thee  go 

"Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow, 

"To  serve  Him  there."    Then  BernoPs  hidden  face 

Went  white  as  death,  and  for  about  the  space 

Of  ten  slow  heart-beats  there  was  no  reply; 

Till  Bernol  looked  around  and  whispered,  "Why?" 

But  answer  to  his  question  came  there  none; 

The  angel  sighed,  and  with  a  sigh  was  gone. 

Within  the  humble  house  where  Malvin  spent 

His  studious  years,  on  holy  things  intent, 

Sweet  stillness  reigned;  and  there  the  angel  found 

The  saintly  sage  immersed  in  thought  profound, 

Weaving  with  patient  toil  and  willing  care 

A  web  of  wisdom,  wonderful  and  fair: 

A  seamless  robe  for  Truth's  great  bridal  meet, 

And  needing  but  one  thread  to  be  complete. 

Then  Asmiel  touched  his  hand,  and  broke  the  thread 

Of  fine-spun  thought,  and  very  gently  said, 

"The  One  of  whom  thou  thinkest  bids  thee  go 

"Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow, 


A  LEGEND   OF  SERVICE  109 

"To  serve  Him  there."    With  sorrow  and  surprise 

Malvin  looked  up,  reluctance  in  his  eyes. 

The  broken  thought,  the  strangeness  of  the  call, 

The  perilous  passage  of  the  mountain-wall, 

The  solitary  journey,  and  the  length 

Of  ways  unknown,  too  great  for  his  frail  strength, 

Appalled  him.     With  a  doubtful  brow 

He  scanned  the  doubtful  task,  and  muttered  "How?" 

But  Asmiel  answered,  as  he  turned  to  go, 

With  cold,  disheartened  voice,  "I  do  not  know." 

Now  as  he  went,  with  fading  hope,  to  seek 

The  third  and  last  to  whom  God  bade  him  speak, 

Scarce  twenty  steps  away  whom  should  he  meet 

But  Fermor,  hurrying  cheerful  down  the  street, 

With  ready  heart  that  faced  his  work  like  play, 

And  joyed  to  find  it  greater  every  day! 

The  angel  stopped  him  with  uplifted  hand, 

And  gave  without  delay  his  Lord's  command: 

"He  whom  thou  servest  here  would  have  thee  go 

"Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow, 

"To  serve  Him  there."    Ere  Asmiel  breathed  again 

The  eager  answer  leaped  to  meet  him,  "When?" 

The  angel's  face  with  inward  joy  grew  bright, 
And  all  his  figure  glowed  with  heavenly  light; 


no  STORIES   IN  VERSE 

He  took  the  golden  circlet  from  his  brow 
And  gave  the  crown  to  Fermor,  answering, " Now! 
"For  thou  hast  met  the  Master's  hidden  test, 
"And  I  have  found  the  man  who  loves  Him  best. 
"Not  thine,  nor  mine,  to  question  or  reply 
"When  He  commands  us,  asking  'how?'  or  'why?' 
"He  knows  the  cause;  His  ways  are  wise  and  just; 
"Who  serves  the  King  must  serve  with  perfect  trust." 
February,  1902. 


THE  WHITE  BEES  in 


THE  WHITE  BEES 

I 
LEGEND 

LONG  ago  Apollo  called  to  Aristaeus,  youngest  of  the  shepherds, 
Saying,  "I  will  make  you  keeper  of  my  bees." 

Golden  were  the  hives,  and  golden  was  the  honey;  golden,  too, 

the  music, 
Where  the  honey-makers  hummed  among  the  trees. 

Happy  Aristaeus  loitered  in  the  garden,  wandered  in  the  orchard, 

Careless  and  contented,  indolent  and  free; 
Lightly  took  his  labour,  lightly  took  his  pleasure,  till  the  fated 
moment 

When  across  his  pathway  came  Eurydice. 

Then  her  eyes  enkindled  burning  love  within  him;  drove  him 

wild  with  longing, 

For  the  perfect  sweetness  of  her  flower-like  face; 
Eagerly  he  followed,  while  she  fled  before  him,  over  mead  and 

mountain, 
On  through  field  and  forest,  in  a  breathless  race. 

But  the  nymph,  in  flying,  trod  upon  a  serpent;  like  a  dream  she 

vanished; 
Pluto's  chariot  bore  her  down  among  the  dead! 


ii2  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Lonely  Aristeus,  sadly  home  returning,  found  his  garden  empty, 
All  the  hives  deserted,  all  the  music  fled. 

Mournfully  bewailing, — "ah,  my  honey-makers,  where  have 

you  departed  ?" 

Far  and  wide  he  sought  them,  over  sea  and  shore; 
Foolish  is  the  tale  that  says  he  ever  found  them,  brought  them 

home  in  triumph, — 
Joys  that  once  escape  us  fly  for  evermore. 

Yet  I  dream  that  somewhere,  clad  in  downy  whiteness,  dwell 

the  honey-makers, 

In  aerial  gardens  that  no  mortal  sees: 
And  at  times  returning,  lo,  they  flutter  round  us,  gathering 

mystic  harvest, — 
So  I  weave  the  legend  of  the  long-lost  bees. 


II 
THE  SWARMING  OF  THE  BEES 

WHO  can  tell  the  hiding  of  the  white  bees'  nest? 

Who  can  trace  the  guiding  of  their  swift  home  flight? 
Far  would  be  his  riding  on  a  lifelong  quest: 

Surely  ere  it  ended  would  his  beard  grow  white. 

Never  in  the  coming  of  the  rose-red  Spring, 
Never  in  the  passing  of  the  wine-red  Fall, 


THE  WHITE  BEES  113 

May  you  hear  the  humming  of  the  white  bee's  wing 
Murmur  o'er  the  meadow,  ere  the  night  bells  call. 

Wait  till  winter  hardens  in  the  cold  grey  sky, 
Wait  till  leaves  are  fallen  and  the  brooks  all  freeze, 

Then  above  the  gardens  where  the  dead  flowers  lie, 
Swarm  the  merry  millions  of  the  wild  white  bees. 


Out  of  the  high-built  airy  hive, 
Deep  in  the  clouds  that  veil  the  sun, 
Look  how  the  first  of  the  swarm  arrive; 
Timidly  venturing,  one  by  one, 
Down  through  the  tranquil  air, 
Wavering  here  and  there, 
Large,  and  lazy  in  flight, — 
Caught  by  a  lift  of  the  breeze, 
Tangled  among  the  naked  trees, — 
Dropping  then,  without  a  sound, 
Feather-white,  feather-light, 
To  their  rest  on  the  ground. 


Thus  the  swarming  is  begun. 
Count  the  leaders,  every  one 
Perfect  as  a  perfect  star 
Till  the  slow  descent  is  done. 


ii4  STORIES   IN  VERSE 

Look  beyond  them,  see  how  far 
Down  the  vistas  dim  and  grey, 
Multitudes  are  on  the  way. 
Now  a  sudden  brightness 
Dawns  within  the  sombre  day, 
Over  fields  of  whiteness; 
And  the  sky  is  swiftly  alive 
With  the  flutter  and  the  flight 
Of  the  shimmering  bees,  that  pour 
From  the  hidden  door  of  the  hive 
Till  you  can  count  no  more. 


Now  on  the  branches  of  hemlock  and  pine 
Thickly  they  settle  and  cluster  and  swing, 
Bending  them  low;  and  the  trellised  vine 
And  the  dark  elm-boughs  are  traced  with  a  line 
Of  beauty  wherever  the  white  bees  cling. 
Now  they  are  hiding  the  wrecks  of  the  flowers, 

Softly,  softly,  covering  all, 
Over  the  grave  of  the  summer  hours 

Spreading  a  silver  pall. 
Now  they  are  building  the  broad  roof  ledge, 
Into  a  cornice  smooth  and  fair, 
Moulding  the  terrace,  from  edge  to  edge, 
Into  the  sweep  of  a  marble  stair. 
Wonderful  workers,  swift  and  dumb, 


THE  WHITE  BEES  115 

Numberless  myriads,  still  they  come, 
Thronging  ever  faster,  faster,  faster! 
Where  is  their  queen?    Who  is  their  master? 
The  gardens  are  faded,  the  fields  are  frore, — 
What  is  the  honey  they  toil  to  store 
In  the  desolate  day,  where  no  blossoms  gleam? 
Forgetfulness  and  a  dream  I 


But  now  the  fretful  wind  awakes; 
I  hear  him  girding  at  the  trees; 
He  strikes  the  bending  boughs,  and  shakes 
The  quiet  clusters  of  the  bees 
To  powdery  drift; 

He  tosses  them  away, 

He  drives  them  like  spray; 
He  makes  them  veer  and  shift 

Around  his  blustering  path. 

In  clouds  blindly  whirling, 

In  rings  madly  swirling, 

Full  of  crazy  wrath, 
So  furious  and  fast  they  fly 
They  blur  the  earth  and  blot  the  sky 

In  wild,  white  mirk. 
They  fill  the  air  with  frozen  wings 
And  tiny,  angry,  icy  stings; 
They  blind  the  eyes,  and  choke  the  breath, 


n6  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

They  dance  a  maddening  dance  of  death 

Around  their  work, 
Sweeping  the  cover  from  the  hill, 
Heaping  the  hollows  deeper  still, 
Effacing  every  line  and  mark, 
And  swarming,  storming  in  the  dark 

Through  the  long  night; 
Until,  at  dawn,  the  wind  lies  down 

Weary  of  fight; 

The  last  torn  cloud,  with  trailing  gown, 
Passes  the  open  gates  of  light; 
And  the  white  bees  are  lost  in  flight. 


Look  how  the  landscape  glitters  wide  and  still, 

Bright  with  a  pure  surprise! 
The  day  begins  with  joy,  and  all  past  ill, 

Buried  in  white  oblivion,  lies 
Beneath  the  snow-drifts  under  crystal  skies. 
New  hope,  new  love,  new  life,  new  cheer, 
Flow  in  the  sunrise  beam, — 
The  gladness  of  Apollo  when  he  sees, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  wintry  year, 
The  honey-harvest  of  his  wild  white  bees, 
Forgetfulness  and  a  dream! 


THE  WHITE  BEES  117 

III 
LEGEND 

LISTEN,  my  beloved,  while  the  silver  morning,  like  a  tranquil 
vision, 

Fills  the  world  around  us  and  our  hearts  with  peace; 
Quiet  is  the  close  of  Aristaeus'  legend,  happy  is  the  ending — 

Listen  while  I  tell  you  how  he  found  release. 

Many  months  he  wandered  far  away  in  sadness,  desolately 

thinking 

Only  of  the  vanished  joys  he  could  not  find; 
Till  the  great  Apollo,  pitying  his  shepherd,  loosed  him  from  the 

burden 
Of  a  dark,  reluctant,  backward-looking  mind. 

Then  he  saw  around  him  all  the  changeful  beauty  of  the  chan- 
ging seasons, 

In  the  world- wide  regions  where  his  journey  lay; 
Birds  that  sang  to  cheer  him,  flowers  that  bloomed  beside  him, 

stars  that  shone  to  guide  him, — 
Traveller's  joy  was  plenty  all  along  the  way! 

Everywhere  he  journeyed  strangers  made  him  welcome,  list- 
ened while  he  taught  them 
Secret  lore  of  field  and  forest  he  had  learned: 


n8  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

How  to  train  the  vines  and  make  the  olives  fruitful;   how  to 

guard  the  sheepfolds; 
How  to  stay  the  fever  when  the  dog-stai  burned. 

Friendliness  and  blessing  followed  in  his  footsteps;  richer  were 

the  harvests, 

Happier  the  dwellings,  wheresoe'er  he  came; 
Little  children  loved  him,  and  he  left  behind  him,  in  the  hour 

of  parting, 
Memories  of  kindness  and  a  god-like  name. 

So  he  travelled  onward,  desolate  no  longer,  patient  in  his  seek- 
ing, 

Reaping  all  the  wayside  comfort  of  his  quest; 
Till  at  last  in  Thracia,  high  upon  Mount  Haemus,  far  from 

human  dwelling, 
Weary  Aristaeus  laid  him  down  to  rest. 

Then  the  honey-makers,  clad  in  downy  whiteness,  fluttered  soft 

around  him, 

Wrapt  him  in  a  dreamful  slumber  pure  and  deep. 
This  is  life,  beloved:   first  a  sheltered  garden,  then  a  troubled 

journey, 

Joy  and  pain  of  seeking, — and  at  last  we  sleep! 
1905. 


NEW   YEAR'S    EVE  119 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 


THE  other  night  I  had  a  dream,  most  clear 

And  comforting,  complete 

In  every  line,  a  crystal  sphere, 

And  full  of  intimate  and  secret  cheer. 

Therefore  I  will  repeat 

That  vision,  dearest  heart,  to  you, 

As  of  a  thing  not  feigned,  but  very  true, 

Yes,  true  as  ever  in  my  life  befell; 

And  you,  perhaps,  can  tell 

Whether  my  dream  was  really  sad  or  sweet. 

II 

The  shadows  flecked  the  elm-embowered  street 

I  knew  so  well,  long,  long  ago; 

And  on  the  pillared  porch  where  Marguerite 

Had  sat  with  me,  the  moonlight  lay  like  snow. 

But  she,  my  comrade  and  my  friend  of  youth, 

Most  gaily  wise, 

Most  innocently  loved, — 

She  of  the  blue-grey  eyes 

That  ever  smiled  and  ever  spoke  the  truth, — 


120  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

From  that  familiar  dwelling,  where  she  moved 

Like  mirth  incarnate  in  the  years  before, 

Had  gone  into  the  hidden  house  of  Death. 

I  thought  the  garden  wore 

White  mourning  for  her  blessed  innocence, 

And  the  syringa's  breath 

Came  from  the  corner  by  the  fence, 

Where  she  had  made  her  rustic  seat, 

With  fragrance  passionate,  intense, 

As  if  it  breathed  a  sigh  for  Marguerite. 

My  heart  was  heavy  with  a  sense 

Of  something  good  for  ever  gone.     I  sought 

Vainly  for  some  consoling  thought, 

Some  comfortable  word  that  I  could  say 

To  her  sad  father,  whom  I  visited  again 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  gone  away. 

The  bell  rang  shrill  and  lonely, — then 

The  door  was  opened,  and  I  sent  my  name 

To  him, — but  ah!  'twas  Marguerite  who  came! 

There  in  the  dear  old  dusky  room  she  stood 

Beneath  the  lamp,  just  as  she  used  to  stand, 

In  tender  mocking  mood. 

"You  did  not  ask  for  me,"  she  said, 

"And  so  I  will  not  let  you  take  my  hand; 

"But  I  must  hear  what  secret  talk  you  planned 

"With  father.     Come,  my  friend,  be  good, 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  121 

"And  tell  me  your  affairs  of  state: 

"Why  you  have  stayed  away  and  made  me  wait 

"So  long.    Sit  down  beside  me  here,— 

"And,  do  you  know,  it  seems  a  year 

"Since  we  have  talked  together, — why  so  late?" 

Amazed,  incredulous,  confused  with  joy 

I  hardly  dared  to  show, 

And  stammering  like  a  boy, 

I  took  the  place  she  showed  me  at  her  side; 

And  then  the  talk  flowed  on  with  brimming  tide 

Through  the  still  night, 

While  she  with  influence  light 

Controlled  it,  as  the  moon  the  flood. 

She  knew  where  I  had  been,  what  I  had  done, 

What  work  was  planned,  and  what  begun; 

My  troubles,  failures,  fears  she  understood, 

And  touched  them  with  a  heart  so  kind, 

That  every  care  was  melted  from  my  mind, 

And  every  hope  grew  bright, 

And  life  seemed  moving  on  to  happy  ends. 

(Ah,  what  self -beggared  fool  was  he 

That  said  a  woman  cannot  be 

The  very  best  of  friends?) 

Then  there  were  memories  of  old  times, 

Recalled  with  many  a  gentle  jest; 


122  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

And  at  the  last  she  brought  the  book  of  rhymes 

We  made  together,  trying  to  translate 

The  Songs  of  Heine  (hers  were  always  best). 

"Now  come,"  she  said, 

"To-night  we  will  collaborate 

"Again;  I'll  put  you  to  the  test. 

"Here's  one  I  never  found  the  way  to  do, — 

"The  simplest  are  the  hardest  ones,  you  know,— 

"I  give  this  song  to  you." 

And  then  she  read: 

Mein  kind,  wir  waren  Kinder, 
Zwei  Kinder,  jung  undfroh. 

But  all  the  while,  a  silent  question  stirred 
Within  me,  though  I  dared  not  speak  the  word: 
"  Is  it  herself,  and  is  she  truly  here, 
"And  was  I  dreaming  when  I  heard 
"That  she  was  dead  last  year? 
"  Or  was  it  true,  and  is  she  but  a  shade 
"Who  brings  a  fleeting  joy  to  eye  and  ear, 
"Cold  though  so  kind,  and  will  she  gently  fade 
"When  her  sweet  ghostly  part  is  played 
"And  the  light-curtain  falls  at  dawn  of  day?" 

But  while  my  heart  was  troubled  by  this  fear 
So  deeply  that  I  could  not  speak  it  out, 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  123 

Lest  all  my  happiness  should  disappear, 

I  thought  me  of  a  cunning  way 

To  hide  the  question  and  dissolve  the  doubt. 

"Will  you  not  give  me  now  your  hand, 

"Dear  Marguerite,"  I  asked,  "to  touch  and  hold, 

"That  by  this  token  I  may  understand 

"You  are  the  same  true  friend  you  were  of  old?" 

She  answered  with  a  smile  so  bright  and  calm 

It  seemed  as  if  I  saw  the  morn  arise 

In  the  deep  heaven  of  her  eyes; 

And  smiling  so,  she  laid  her  palm 

In  mine.    Dear  God,  it  was  not  cold 

But  warm  with  vital  heat! 

"You  live!"  I  cried,  "you  live,  dear  Marguerite!" 

Then  I  awoke;  but  strangely  comforted, 

Although  I  knew  again  that  she  was  dead. 


in 

Yes,  there's  the  dream!    And  was  it  sweet  or  sad? 
Dear  mistress  of  my  waking  and  my  sleep, 
Present  reward  of  all  my  heart's  desire, 
Watching  with  me  beside  the  winter  fire, 
Interpret  now  this  vision  that  I  had. 
But  while  you  read  the  meaning,  let  me  keep 
The  touch  of  you:  for  the  Old  Year  with  storm 


124  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

Is  passing  through  the  midnight,  and  doth  shake 

The  corners  of  the  house, — and  oh !  my  heart  would  break 

Unless  both  dreaming  and  awake 

My  hand  could  feel  your  hand  was  warm,  warm,  warm ! 

1905. 


i 

THE  VAIN  KING  125 


THE  VAIN  KING 

IN  robes  of  Tyrian  blue  the  King  was  drest, 

A  jewelled  collar  shone  upon  his  breast, 

A  giant  ruby  glittered  in  his  crown — 

Lord  of  rich  lands  and  many  a  splendid  town. 

In  him  the  glories  of  an  ancient  line 

Of  sober  kings,  who  ruled  by  right  divine, 

Were  centred;  and  to  him  with  loyal  awe 

The  people  looked  for  leadership  and  law. 

Ten  thousand  knights,  the  safeguard  of  the  land, 

Were  like  a  single  sword  within  his  hand; 

A  hundred  courts,  with  power  of  life  and  death, 

Proclaimed  decrees  of  justice  by  his  breath; 

And  all  the  sacred  growths  that  men  had  known 

Of  order  and  of  rule  upheld  his  throne. 

Proud  was  the  King:  yet  not  with  such  a  heart 
As  fits  a  man  to  play  a  royal  part. 

Not  his  the  pride  that  honours  as  a  trust 

* 
The  right  to  rule,  the  duty  to  be  just: 

Not  his  the  dignity  that  bends  to  bear 

The  monarch's  yoke,  the  master's  load  of  care, 

And  labours  like  the  peasant  at  his  gate, 


126  STORIES   IN  VERSE 


To  serve  the  people  and  protect  the  State. 

Another  pride  was  his,  and  other  joys: 

To  him  the  crown  and  sceptre  were  but  toys, 

With  which  he  played  at  glory's  idle  game, 

To  please  himself  and  win  the  wreaths  of  fame. 

The  throne  his  fathers  held  from  age  to  age, 

To  his  ambition  seemed  a  fitting  stage 

Built  for  King  Martin  to  display  at  will, 

His  mighty  strength  and  universal  skill. 

No  conscious  child,  that,  spoiled  with  praising,  tries 

At  every  step  to  win  admiring  eyes, 

No  favourite  mountebank,  whose  acting  draws 

From  gaping  crowds  the  thunder  of  applause, 

Was  vainer  than  the  King:  his  only  thirst 

Was  to  be  hailed,  in  every  race,  the  first. 

When  tournament  was  held,  in  knightly  guise 

The  King  would  ride  the  lists  and  win  the  prize; 

When  music  charmed  the  court,  with  golden  lyre 

The  King  would  take  the  stage  and  lead  the  choir; 

In  hunting,  his  the  lance  to  slay  the  boar; 

In  hawking,  see  his  falcon  highest  soar; 

In  painting,  he  would  wield  the  master's  brush; 

In  high  debate, — "the  King  is  speaking!  Hush!" 

Thus,  with  a  restless  heart,  in  every  field 

He  sought  renown,  and  made  his  subjects  yield. 

But  while  he  played  the  petty  games  of  life 


THE  VAIN  KING  127 

His  kingdom  fell  a  prey  to  inward  strife; 
Corruption  through  the  court  unheeded  crept, 
And  on  the  seat  of  honour  justice  slept. 
The  strong  trod  down  the  weak;  the  helpless  poor 
Groaned  under  burdens  grievous  to  endure; 
The  nation's  wealth  was  spent  in  vain  display, 
And  weakness  wore  the  nation's  heart  away. 

Yet  think  not  Earth  is  blind  to  human  woes — 
Man  has  more  friends  and  helpers  than  he  knows; 
And  when  a  patient  people  are  oppressed, 
The  land  that  bore  them  feels  it  in  her  breast. 
Spirits  of  field  and  flood,  of  heath  and  hill, 
Are  grieved  and  angry  at  the  spreading  ill; 
The  trees  complain  together  in  the  night, 
Voices  of  wrath  are  heard  along  the  height, 
And  secret  vows  are  sworn,  by  stream  and  strand, 
To  bring  the  tyrant  low  and  free  the  land. 

But  little  recked  the  pampered  King  of  these; 
He  heard  no  voice  but  such  as  praise  and  please. 
Flattered  and  fooled,  victor  in  every  sport, 
One  day  he  wandered  idly  with  his  court 
Beside  the  river,  seeking  to  devise 
New  ways  to  show  his  skill  to  wondering  eyes. 
There  in  the  stream  a  patient  angler  stood. 


128  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

And  cast  his  line  across  the  rippling  flood. 
His  silver  spoil  lay  near  him  on  the  green: 
"Such  fish,"  the  courtiers  cried,  "were  never  seen! 
"Three  salmon  longer  than  a  cloth-yard  shaft — 
"This  man  must  be  the  master  of  his  craft!" 
"An  easy  art!"  the  jealous  King  replied: 
"Myself  could  learn  it  better,  if  I  tried, 
"And  catch  a  hundred  larger  fish  a  week— 
"Wilt  thou  accept  the  challenge,  fellow?     Speak!" 
The  angler  turned,  came  near,  and  bent  his  knee: 
"'Tis  not  for  kings  to  strive  with  such  as  me; 
"Yet  if  the  King  commands  it,  I  obey. 
"But  one  condition  of  the  strife  I  pray: 
"The  fisherman  who  brings  the  least  to  land 
"Shall  do  whate'er  the  other  may  command." 
Loud  laughed  the  King:  "A  foolish  fisher  thou! 
"For  I  shall  win,  and  rule  thee  then  as  now." 

Then  to  Prince  John,  a  sober  soul,  sedate 
And  slow,  King  Martin  left  the  helm  of  State, 
While  to  the  novel  game  with  eager  zest 
He  all  his  time  and  all  his  powers  addressed. 
Sure  such  a  sight  was  never  seen  before! 
In  robe  and  crown  the  monarch  trod  the  shore; 
His  golden  hooks  were  decked  with  feathers  fine, 
His  jewelled  reel  ran  out  a  silken  line. 


THE  VAIN  KING  129 

With  kingly  strokes  he  flogged  the  crystal  stream; 
Far-off  the  salmon,  saw  his  tackle  gleam; 
Careless  of  kings,  they  eyed  with  calm  disdain 
The  gaudy  lure,  and  Martin  fished  in  vain. 
On  Friday,  when  the  week  was  almost  spent, 
He  scanned  his  empty  creel  with  discontent, 
Called  for  a  net,  and  cast  it  far  and  wide, 
And  drew — a  thousand  minnows  from  the  tide! 
Then  came  the  angler  to  conclude  the  match, 
And  at  the  monarch's  feet  spread  out  his  catch — 
A  hundred  salmon,  greater  than  before. 
"I  win!"  he  cried:  "the  King  must  pay  the  score." 
Then  Martin,  angry,  threw  his  tackle  down: 
"Rather  than  lose  this  game  I'd  lose  my  crown!" 
"Nay,  thou  hast  lost  them  both,"  the  angler  said; 
And  as  he  spoke  a  wondrous  light  was  shed 
Around  his  form;  he  dropped  his  garments  mean, 
And  in  his  place  the  River-god  was  seen. 
"Thy  vanity  has  brought  thee  in  my  power, 
"And  thou  must  pay  the  forfeit  at  this  hour: 
"For  thou  hast  shown  thyself  a  royal  fool, 
"Too  proud  to  angle,  and  too  vain  to  rule, 
"Eager  to  win  in  every  trivial  strife, — 
"Go!    Thou  shalt  fish  for  minnows  all  thy  life!" 
Wrathful,  the  King  the  magic  sentence  heard; 
He  strove  to  answer,  but  he  only  chirr-r-ed: 


130  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

His  royal  robe  was  changed  to  wings  of  blue, 
His  crown  a  ruby  crest, — away  he  flew! 

So  every  summer  day  along  the  stream 
The  vain  King-fisher  darts,  an  azure  gleam, 
And  scolds  the  angler  with  a  mocking  scream. 
April,  1904. 


THE  FOOLISH  FIR-TREE      *  131 


THE  FOOLISH  FIR-TREE 

A  tale  that  the  poet  Ruckert  told 
To  German  children,  in  days  of  old; 
Disguised  in  a  random,  rollicking  rhyme 
Like  a  merry  mummer  of  ancient  time, 
And  sent,  in  its  English  dress,  to  please 
The  little  folk  of  the  Christmas  trees. 

A  LITTLE  fir  grew  in  the  midst  of  the  wood 
Contented  and  happy,  as  young  trees  should. 
His  body  was  straight  and  his  boughs  were  clean; 
And  summer  and  winter  the  bountiful  sheen 
Of  his  needles  bedecked  him,  from  top  to  root, 
In  a  beautiful,  all-the-year,  evergreen  suit. 

But  a  trouble  came  into  his  heart  one  day, 
When  he  saw  that  the  other  trees  were  gay 
In  the  wonderful  raiment  that  summer  weaves 
Of  manifold  shapes  and  kinds  of  leaves: 
He  looked  at  his  needles  so  stiff  and  small, 
And  thought  that  his  dress  was  the  poorest  of  all. 
Then  jealousy  clouded  the  little  tree's  mind, 
And  he  said  to  himself,  "  It  was  not  very  kind 
"To  give  such  an  ugly  old  dress  to  a  tree! 
"If  the  fays  of  the  forest  would  only  ask  me, 
"I'd  tell  them  how  I  should  like  to  be  dressed,— 


132  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

"In  a  garment  of  gold,  to  bedazzle  the  rest!" 
So  he  fell  asleep,  but  his  dreams  were  bad. 
When  he  woke  in  the  morning,  his  heart  was  glad; 
For  every  leaf  that  his  boughs  could  hold 
Was  made  of  the  brightest  beaten  gold. 
I  tell  you,  children,  the  tree  was  proud; 
He  was  something  above  the  common  crowd; 
And  he  tinkled  his  leaves,  as  if  he  would  say 
To  a  pedlar  who  happened  to  pass  that  way, 
"Just  look  at  me!    Don't  you  think  I  am  fine? 
"And  wouldn't  you  like  such  a  dress  as  mine?" 
"Oh,  yes!"  said  the  man,  "and  I  really  guess 
"I  must  fill  my  pack  with  your  beautiful  dress." 
So  he  picked  the  golden  leaves  with  care, 
And  left  the  little  tree  shivering  there. 

"Oh,  why  did  I  wish  for  golden  leaves?" 
The  fir- tree  said,  "I  forgot  that  thieves 
"Would  be  sure  to  rob  me  in  passing  by. 
"If  the  fairies  would  give  me  another  try, 
"I'd  wish  for  something  that  cost  much  less, 
"And  be  satisfied  with  glass  for  my  dress!" 
Then  he  fell  asleep;  and,  just  as  before, 
The  fairies  granted  his  wish  once  more. 
When  the  night  was  gone,  and  the  sun  rose  clear, 
The  tree  was  a  crystal  chandelier; 


THE  FOOLISH  FIR-TREE  133 

And  it  seemed,  as  he  stood  in  the  morning  light, 
That  his  branches  were  covered  with  jewels  bright. 
"Aha!"  said  the  tree.     "This  is  something  great!" 
And  he  held  himself  up,  very  proud  and  straight; 
But  a  rude  young  wind  through  the  forest  dashed, 
In  a  reckless  temper,  and  quickly  smashed 
The  delicate  leaves.     With  a  clashing  sound 
They  broke  into  pieces  and  fell  on  the  ground, 
Like  a  silvery,  shimmering  shower  of  hail, 
And  the  tree  stood  naked  and  bare  to  the  gale. 

Then  his  heart  was  sad;  and  he  cried,  "Alas 
"For  my  beautiful  leaves  of  shining  glass! 
"Perhaps  I  have  made  another  mistake 
"In  choosing  a  dress  so  easy  to  break. 
"If  the  fairies  only  would  hear  me  again 
"I'd  ask  them  for  something  both  pretty  and  plain: 
"It  wouldn't  cost  much  to  grant  my  request, — 
"In  leaves  of  green  lettuce  I'd  like  to  be  dressed!" 
By  this  time  the  fairies  were  laughing,  I  know; 
But  they  gave  him  his  wish  in  a  second;  and  so 
With  leaves  of  green  lettuce,  all  tender  and  sweet, 
The  tree  was  arrayed,  from  his  head  to  his  feet. 
"I  knew  it!"  he  cried,  "I  was  sure  I  could  find 
"The  sort  of  a  suit  that  would  be  to  my  mind. 
"There's  none  of  the  trees  has  a  prettier  dress, 


134  STORIES  IN  VERSE 

"And  none  as  attractive  as  I  am,  I  guess." 
But  a  goat,  who  was  taking  an  afternoon  walk, 
By  chance  overheard  the  fir-tree's  talk. 
So  he  came  up  close  for  a  nearer  view; — 
"My  salad!"  he  bleated,  "I  think  so  too! 
"You're  the  most  attractive  kind  of  a  tree, 
"And  I  want  your  leaves  for  my  five-o'clock  tea." 
So  he  ate  them  all  without  saying  grace, 
And  walked  away  with  a  grin  on  his  face; 
While  the  little  tree  stood  in  the  twilight  dim, 
With  never  a  leaf  on  a  single  limb. 

Then  he  sighed  and  groaned;  but  his  voice  was  weak- 
He  was  so  ashamed  that  he  could  not  speak. 
He  knew  at  last  he  had  been  a  fool, 
To  think  of  breaking  the  forest  rule, 
And  choosing  a  dress  himself  to  please, 
Because  he  envied  the  other  trees. 
But  it  couldn't  be  helped,  it  was  now  too  late, 
He  must  make  up  his  mind  to  a  leafless  fate! 
So  he  let  himself  sink  in  a  slumber  deep, 
But  he  moaned  and  he  tossed  in  his  troubled  sleep, 
Till  the  morning  touched  him  with  joyful  beam, 
And  he  woke  to  find  it  was  all  a  dream. 
For  there  in  his  evergreen  dress  he  stood, 
A  pointed  fir  in  the  midst  of  the  wood! 


THE  FOOLISH  FIR-TREE  135 

His  branches  were  sweet  with  the  balsam  smell, 
His  needles  were  green  when  the  white  snow  fell. 
And  always  contented  and  happy  was  he, — 
The  very  best  kind  of  a  Christmas  tree. 


PRO  PATRIA 


PATRIA 

I  WOULD  not  even  ask  my  heart  to  say 
If  I  could  love  another  land  as  well 
As  thee,  my  country,  had  I  felt  the  spell 

Of  Italy  at  birth,  or  learned  to  obey 

The  charm  of  France,  or  England's  mighty  sway. 
I  would  not  be  so  much  an  infidel 
As  once  to  dream,  or  fashion  words  to  tell, 

What  land  could  hold  my  heart  from  thee  away. 

For  like  a  law  of  nature  in  my  blood 
I  feel  thy  sweet  and  secret  sovereignty, 

And  woven  through  my  soul  thy  vital  sign. 
My  life  is  but  a  wave  and  thou  the  flood; 
I  am  a  leaf  and  thou  the  mother- tree; 
Nor  should  I  be  at  all,  were  I  not  thine. 

June,  1904. 


139 


140  PRO  PATRIA 


AMERICA 

I  LOVE  thine  inland  seas, 
Thy  groves  of  giant  trees, 

Thy  rolling  plains; 
Thy  rivers'  mighty  sweep, 
Thy  mystic  canyons  deep, 
Thy  mountains  wild  and  steep, 

All  thy  domains; 

Thy  silver  Eastern  strands, 
Thy  Golden  Gate  that  stands 

Wide  to  the  West; 
Thy  flowery  Southland  fair, 
Thy  sweet  and  crystal  air, — 
O  land  beyond  compare, 

Thee  I  love  best! 
March,  1906. 


THE  ANCESTRAL  DWELLINGS 


THE  ANCESTRAL   DWELLINGS 

DEAR  to  my  heart  are  the  ancestral  dwellings  of  America, 
Dearer  than  if  they  were  haunted  by  ghosts  of  royal  splendour; 
They  are  simple  enough  to  be  great  in  their  friendly  dignity, — 
Homes  that  were  built  by  the  brave  beginners  of  a  nation. 

I  love  the  old  white  farmhouses  nestled  in  New  England  valleys, 
Ample  and  long  and  low,  with  elm-trees  feathering  over  them: 
Borders  of  box  in  the  yard,  and  lilacs,  and  old-fashioned 

roses, 
A  fan-light  above  the  door,  and  little  square  panes  in  the 

windows, 
The  wood-shed  piled  with  maple  and  birch  and  hickory  ready 

for  winter, 
The  gambrel-roof  with   its  garret  crowded  with   household 

relics, — 
All  the  tokens  of  prudent  thrift  and  the  spirit  of  self-reliance. 

I  love  the  weather-beaten,   shingled  houses  that  front  the 

ocean; 
They  seem  to  grow   out  of  the   rocks,  there  is  something 

indomitable  about  them: 


i42  PRO   PATRIA 

Their  backs  are  bowed,  and  their  sides  are  covered  with 

lichens; 
Soft  in  their  colour  as  grey  pearls,  they  are  full  of  a  patient 

courage. 

Facing  the  briny  wind  on  a  lonely  shore  they  stand  undaunted, 
While  the  thin  blue  pennant  of  smoke  from  the  square-built 

chimney 
Tells  of  a  haven  for  man,  with  room  for  a  hearth  and  a  cradle. 

I  love  the  stately  southern  mansions  with  their  tall  white 

columns, 
They  look  through  avenues  of  trees,  over  fields  where  the  cotton 

is  growing; 

I  can  see  the  flutter  of  white  frocks  along  their  shady  porches, 
Music  and  laughter  float  from  the  windows,  the  yards  are  full 

of  hounds  and  horses. 
Long  since  the  riders  have  ridden  away,  yet  the  houses  have 

not  forgotten, 
They  are  proud  of  their  name  and  place,  and  their  doors  are 

always  open, 
For  the  thing  they  remember  best  is  the  pride  of  their  ancient 

hospitality. 

In  the  towns  I  love  the  discreet  and  tranquil  Quaker  dwellings, 
With  their  demure  brick  faces  and  immaculate  marble  door- 
steps; 


THE  ANCESTRAL  DWELLINGS  143 

And  the  gabled  houses  of  the  Dutch,  with  their  high  stoops  and 
iron  railings, 

(I  can  see  their  little  brass  knobs  shining  in  the  morning  sun- 
light); 

And  the  solid  self-contained  houses  of  the  descendants  of  the 
Puritans, 

Frowning  on  the  street  with  their  narrow  doors  and  dormer- 
windows; 

And  the  triple-galleried,  many-pillared  mansions  of  Charleston, 

Standing  open  sideways  in  their  gardens  of  roses  and  magnolias. 

Yes,  they  are  all  dear  to  my  heart,  and  in  my  eyes  they  are 

beautiful ; 
For  under  their  roofs  were  nourished  the  thoughts  that  have 

made  the  nation; 
The  glory  and  strength  of  America  come  from  her  ancestral 

dwellings. 
July,  1909. 


144  PRO  PATRIA 


HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE 

THE   SHALLOP   ON  HUDSON   BAY 
JUNE  22,  1611 

ONE  sail  in  sight  upon  the  lonely  sea,  • 

And  only  one!    For  never  ship  but  mine 

Has  dared  these  waters.    We  were  first, 

My  men,  to  battle  in  between  the  bergs 

And  floes  to  these  wide  waves.    This  gulf  is  mine; 

I  name  it!  and  that  flying  sail  is  mine! 

And  there,  hull-down  below  that  flying  sail, 

The  ship  that  staggers  home  is  mine,  mine,  mine! 

My  ship  DiscoverieJ 

The  sullen  dogs 

Of  mutineers,  the  bitches'  whelps  that  snatched 
Their  food  and  bit  the  hand  that  nourished  them, 
Have  stolen  her.     You  ingrate  Henry  Greene, 
I  picked  you  from  the  gutter  of  Houndsditch, 
And  paid  your  debts,  and  kept  you  in  my  house, 
And  brought  you  here  to  make  a  man  of  you ! 
You  Robert  Juet,  ancient,  crafty  man, 
Toothless  and  tremulous,  how  many  times 


HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE  145 

Have  I  employed  you  as  a  master's  mate 

To  give  you  bread?    And  you  Abacuck  Prickett, 

You  sailor-clerk,  you  salted  puritan, 

You  knew  the  plot  and  silently  agreed, 

Salving  your  conscience  with  a  pious  lie! 

Yes,  all  of  you — hounds,  rebels,  thieves!    Bring  back 

My  ship! 

Too  late, — I  rave, — they  cannot  hear 
My  voice:  and  if  they  heard,  a  drunken  laugh 
Would  be  their  answer;  for  their  minds  have  caught 
The  fatal  firmness  of  the  fool's  resolve, 
That  looks  like  courage  but  is  only  fear. 
They'll  blunder  on,  and  lose  my  ship,  and  drown,— 
Or  blunder  home  to  England  and  be  hanged. 
Their  skeletons  will  rattle  in  the  chains 
Of  some  tall  gibbet  on  the  Channel  cliffs, 
While  passing  mariners  look  up  and  say: 
"Those  are  the  rotten  bones  of  Hudson's  men 
"Who  left  their  captain  in  the  frozen  North!" 

O  God  of  justice,  why  hast  Thou  ordained 
Plans  of  the  wise  and  actions  of  the  brave 
Dependent  on  the  aid  of  fools  and  cowards? 

Look,— there  she  goes,— her  topsails  in  the  sun 
Gleam  from  the  ragged  ocean  edge,  and  drop 


146  PRO  PATRIA 

Clean  out  of  sight!  So  let  the  traitors  go 
Clean  out  of  mind!    We'll  think  of  braver  things! 
Come  closer  in  the  boat,  my  friends.     John  King, 
You  take  the  tiller,  keep  her  head  nor'west. 
You  Philip  Staffe,  the  only  one  who  chose 
Freely  to  share  our  little  shallop's  fate, 
Rather  than  travel  in  the  hell-bound  ship, — 
Too  good  an  English  sailor  to  desert 
Your  crippled  comrades, — try  to  make  them  rest 
More  easy  on  the  thwarts.     And  John,  my  son, 
My  little  shipmate,  come  and  lean  your  head 
Against  my  knee.     Do  you  remember  still 
The  April  morn  in  Ethelburga's  church, 
Five  years  ago,  when  side  by  side  we  kneeled 
To  take  the  sacrament  with  all  our  men, 
Before  the  Hopewell  left  St.  Catherine's  docks 
On  our  first  voyage?     It  was  then  I  vowed 
My  sailor-soul  and  yours  to  search  the  sea 
Until  we  found  the  water-path  that  leads 
From  Europe  into  Asia. 

I  believe 

That  God  has  poured  the  ocean  round  His  world, 
Not  to  divide,  but  to  unite  the  lands. 
And  all  the  English  captains  that  have  dared 
In  little  ships  to  plough  uncharted  waves, — 
Davis  and  Drake,  Hawkins  and  Frobisher, 


HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE  147 

Raleigh  and  Gilbert, — all  the  other  names, — 

Are  written  in  the  chivalry  of  God 

As  men  who  served  His  purpose.     I  would  claim 

A  place  among  that  knighthood  of  the  sea; 

And  I  have  earned  it,  though  my  quest  should  fail! 

For,  mark  me  well,  the  honour  of  our  life 

Derives  from  this:  to  have  a  certain  aim 

Before  us  always,  which  our  will  must  seek 

Amid  the  peril  of  uncertain  ways. 

Then,  though  we  miss  the  goal,  our  search  is  crowned 

With  courage,  and  we  find  along  our  path 

A  rich  reward  of  unexpected  things. 

Press  towards  the  aim:  take  fortune  as  it  fares! 

I  know  not  why,  but  something  in  my  heart 
Has  always  whispered,  "Westward  seek  your  goal!" 
Three  times  they  sent  me  east,  but  still  I  turned 
The  bowsprit  west,  and  felt  among  the  floes 
Of  ruttling  ice  along  the  Greenland  coast, 
And  down  the  rugged  shore  of  Newfoundland, 
And  past  the  rocky  capes  and  wooded  bays 
Where  Gosnold  sailed, — like  one  who  feels  his  way 
With  outstretched  hand  across  a  darkened  room, — 
I  groped  among  the  inlets  and  the  isles, 
To  find  the  passage  to  the  Land  of  Spice. 
I  have  not  found  it  yet, — but  I  have  found 


148  PRO   PATRIA 

Things  worth  the  finding ! 

Son,  have  you  forgot 

Those  mellow  autumn  days,  two  years  ago, 
When  first  we  sent  our  little  ship  Half-Moon, — 
The  flag  of  Holland  floating  at  her  peak, — 
Across  a  sandy  bar,  and  sounded  in 
Among  the  channels,  to  a  goodly  bay 
Where  all  the  navies  of  the  world  could  ride  ? 
A  fertile  island  that  the  redmen  called 
Manhattan,  lay  above  the  bay:  the  land 
Around  was  bountiful  and  friendly  fair. 
But  never  land  was  fair  enough  to  hold 
The  seaman  from  the  calling  of  the  sea. 
And  so  we  bore  to  westward  of  the  isle, 
Along  a  mighty  inlet,  where  the  tide 
Was  troubled  by  a  downward- flowing  flood 
That  seemed  to  come  from  far  away, — perhaps 
From  some  mysterious  gulf  of  Tartary? 
Inland  we  held  our  course;  by  palisades 
Of  naked  rock;  by  rolling  hills  adorned 
With  forests  rich  in  timber  for  great  ships; 
Through  narrows  where  the  mountains  shut  us  in 
With  frowning  cliffs  that  seemed  to  bar  the  stream; 
And  then  through  open  reaches  where  the  banks 
Sloped  to  the  water  gently,  with  their  fields 
Of  corn  and  lentils  smiling  in  the  sun. 


HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE  149 

Ten  days  we  voyaged  through  that  placid  land, 
Until  we  came  to  shoals,  and  sent  a  boat 
Upstream  to  find, — what  I  already  knew, — 
We  travelled  on  a  river,  not  a  strait. 

But  what  a  river!  God  has  never  poured 

A  stream  more  royal  through  a  land  more  rich. 

Even  now  I  see  it  flowing  in  my  dream, 

While  coming  ages  people  it  with  men 

Of  manhood  equal  to  the  river's  pride. 

I  see  the  wigwams  of  the  redmen  changed 

To  ample  houses,  and  the  tiny  plots 

Of  maize  and  green  tobacco  broadened  out 

To  prosperous  farms,  that  spread  o'er  hill  and  dale 

The  many-coloured  mantle  of  their  crops. 

I  see  the  terraced  vineyard  on  the  slope 

Where  now  the  fox-grape  loops  its  tangled  vine 

And  cattle  feeding  where  the  red  deer  roam, 

And  wild-bees  gathered  into  busy  hives 

To  store  the  silver  comb  with  golden  sweet; 

And  all  the  promised  land  begins  to  flow 

With  milk  and  honey.     Stately  manors  rise 

Along  the  banks,  and  castles  top  the  hills, 

And  little  villages  grow  populous  with  trade, 

Until  the  river  runs  as  proudly  as  the  Rhine, — 

The  thread  that  links  a  hundred  towns  and  towers ! 


150  PRO  PATRIA 

Now  looking  deeper  in  my  dream,  I  see 

A  mighty  city  covering  the  isle 

They  call  Manhattan,  equal  in  her  state 

To  all  the  older  capitals  of  earth, — 

The  gateway  city  of  a  golden  world, — 

A  city  girt  with  masts,  and  crowned  with  spires, 

And  swarming  with  a  million  busy  men, 

While  to  her  open  door  across  the  bay 

The  ships  of  all  the  nations  flock  like  doves. 

My  name  will  be  remembered  there,  the  world 

Will  say,  "This  river  and  this  isle  were  found 

By  Henry  Hudson,  on  his  way  to  seek 

The  Northwest  Passage." 

Yes,  I  seek  it  still,— 

My  great  adventure  and  my  guiding  star ! 
For  look  ye,  friends,  our  voyage  is  not  done; 
We  hold  by  hope  as  long  as  life  endures! 
Somewhere  among  these  floating  fields  of  ice, 
Somewhere  along  this  westward  widening  bay, 
Somewhere  beneath  this  luminous  northern  night, 
The  channel  opens  to  the  Farthest  East, — 
I  know  it, — and  some  day  a  little  ship 
Will  push  her  bowsprit  in,  and  battle  through ! 
And  why  not  ours, — to-morrow, — who  can  tell  ? 
The  lucky  chance  awaits  the  fearless  heart! 
These  are  the  longest  days  of  all  the  year ; 


HUDSON'S  LAST  VOYAGE  151 

The  world  is  round  and  God  is  everywhere, 
And  while  our  shallop  floats  we  still  can  steer. 

So  point  her  up,  John  King,  nor'west  by  north. 
We'll  keep  the  honour  of  a  certain  aim 
Amid  the  peril  of  uncertain  ways, 
And  sail  ahead,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
July,  1909. 


152  PRO   PATRIA 


SEA-GULLS  OF  MANHATTAN 

CHILDREN  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Born  upon  some  lonely  island  shore 
Where  the  wrinkled  ripples  run  and  whisper, 

Where  the  crested  billows  plunge  and  roar; 
Long-winged,  tireless  reamers  and  adventurers, 

Fearless  breasters  of  the  wind  and  sea, 
In  the  far-off  solitary  places 

I  have  seen  you  floating  wild  and  free! 

Here  the  high-built  cities  rise  around  you ; 

Here  the  cliffs  that  tower  east  and  west, 
Honeycombed  with  human  habitations, 

Have  no  hiding  for  the  sea-bird's  nest: 
Here  the  river  flows  begrimed  and  troubled; 

Here  the  hurrying,  panting  vessels  fume, 
Restless,  up  and  down  the  watery  highway, 

While  a  thousand  chimneys  vomit  gloom. 

Toil  and  tumult,  conflict  and  confusion, 
Clank  and  clamour  of  the  vast  machine 

Human  hands  have  built  for  human  bondage — 
Yet  amid  it  all  you  float  serene; 


SEA-GULLS   OF  MANHATTAN  153 

Circling,  soaring,  sailing,  swooping  lightly 
Down  to  glean  your  harvest  from  the  wave; 

In  your  heritage  of  air  and  water, 
You  have  kept  the  freedom  Nature  gave. 

Even  so  the  wild-woods  of  Manhattan 

Saw  your  wheeling  flocks  of  white  and  grey; 
Even  so  you  fluttered,  followed,  floated, 

Round  the  Half -Moon  creeping  up  the  bay; 
Even  so  your  voices  creaked  and  chattered, 

Laughing  shrilly  o'er  the  tidal  rips, 
While  your  black  and  beady  eyes  were  glistening 

Round  the  sullen  British  prison-ships. 

Children  of  the  elemental  mother, 

Fearless  floaters  'mid  the  double  blue, 
From  the  crowded  boats  that  cross  the  ferries 

Many  a  longing  heart  goes  out  to  you. 
Though  the  cities  climb  and  close  around  us, 

Something  tells  us  that  our  souls  are  free, 
While  the  sea-gulls  fly  above  the  harbour, 

While  the  river  flows  to  meet  the  sea! 
December,  1905. 


154  PRO  PATRIA 


A  BALLAD   OF  CLAREMONT  HILL 

j 

THE  roar  of  the  city  is  low, 

Muffled  by  new-fallen  snow, 
And  the  sign  of  the  wintry  moon  is  small  and  round  and  still. 

Will  you  come  with  me  to-night, 

To  see  a  pleasant  sight 
Away  on  the  river-side,  at  the  edge  of  Claremont  Hill  ? 

"And  what  shall  we  see  there, 
But  streets  that  are  new  and  bare, 

And  many  a  desolate  place  that  the  city  is  coming  to  fill; 
And  a  soldier's  tomb  of  stone, 
And  a  few  trees  standing  alone — 

Will  you  walk  for  that  through  the  cold,  to  the  edge  of  Clare- 
mont Hill?" 

But  there's  more  than  that  for  me, 
In  the  place  that  I  fain  would  see: 

There's  a  glimpse  of  the  grace  that  helps  us  all  to  bear  life's  ill, — 
A  touch  of  the  vital  breath 
That  keeps  the  world  from  death, — 

A  flower  that  never  fades,  on  the  edge  of  Claremont  Hill. 


A  BALLAD   OF  CLAREMONT  HILL  155 

For  just  where  the  road  swings  round, 

In  a  narrow  strip  of  ground, 
Where  a  group  of  forest  trees  are  lingering  fondly  still, 

There's  a  grave  of  the  olden  time, 

When  the  garden  bloomed  in  its  prime, 

And  the  children  laughed  and  sang  on  the  edge  of  Claremont 
Hill. 

The  marble  is  pure  and  white, 

And  even  in  this  dim  light, 

You  may  read  the  simple  words  that  are  written  there  if  you 
will; 

You  may  hear  a  father  tell 

Of  the  child  he  loved  so  well, 
A  hundred  years  ago,  on  the  edge  of  Claremont  Hill. 

The  tide  of  the  city  has  rolled 

Across  that  bower  of  old, 
And  blotted  out  the  beds  of  the  rose  and  the  daffodil; 

But  the  little  pla  mate  sleeps, 

And  the  shrine  of  love  still  keeps 
A  record  of  happy  days,  on  the  edge  of  Claremont  Hill. 

The  river  is  pouring  down 
To  the  crowded,  careless  town, 
Where  the  intricate  wheels  of  trade  are  grinding  on  like  a  mill ; 


156  PRO  PATRIA 

But  the  clamorous  noise  and  strife 
Of  the  hurrying  waves  of  life 
Flow  soft  by  this  haven  of  peace  on  the  edge  of  Claremont  Hill. 

And  after  all,  my  friend, 

When  the  tale  of  our  years  shall  end, 

Be  it  long  or  short,  or  lowly  or  great,  as  God  may  will, 
What  better  praise  could  we  hear, 
Than  this  of  the  child  so  dear: 

You  have  made  my  life  more  sweet,  on  the  edge  of  Claremont 
Hill? 

December,  1896. 


URBS   CORONATA  157 


URBS  CORONATA 

(SONG   FOR  THE    ClTY   COLLEGE   OF   NEW    YORK) 

O  YOUNGEST  of  the  giant  brood 

Of  cities  far-renowned; 
In  wealth  and  glory  thou  hast  passed 

Thy  rivals  at  a  bound; 
Thou  art  a  mighty  queen,  New  York; 

And  how  wilt  thou  be  crowned? 

"Weave  me  no  palace-wreath  of  Pride," 

The  royal  city  said; 
"Nor  forge  of  frowning  fortress- walls 

A  helmet  for  my  head; 
But  let  me  wear  a  diadem 

Of  Wisdom's  towers  instead." 

She  bowed  herself,  she  spent  herself, 
She  wrought  her  will  forsooth, 

And  set  upon  her  island  height 
A  citadel  of  Truth, 

A  house  of  Light,  a  home  of  Thought, 
A  shrine  of  noble  Youth. 


158  PRO  PATRIA 

Stand  here,  ye  City  College  towers, 
And  look  both  up  and  down; 

Remember  all  who  wrought  for  you 
Within  the  toiling  town; 

Remember  all  their  hopes  for  you, 
And  be  the  City's  Crown. 

June,  1908. 


MERCY  FOR  ARMENIA  159 


MERCY  FOR  ARMENIA 

I 
THE  TURK'S  WAY 

STAND  back,  ye  messengers  of  mercy!    Stand 
Far  off,  for  I  will  save  my  troubled  folk 
In  my  own  way.     So  the  false  Sultan  spoke; 

And  Europe,  hearkening  to  his  base  command, 

Stood  still  to  see  him  heal  his  wounded  land. 
Through  blinding  snows  of  winter  and  through  smoke 
Of  burning  towns,  she  saw  him  deal  the  stroke 

Of  cruel  mercy  that  his  hate  had  planned. 

Unto  the  prisoners  and  the  sick  he  gave 
New  tortures,  horrible,  without  a  name; 

Unto  the  thirsty,  blood  to  drink;  a  sword 
Unto  the  hungry;   with  a  robe  of  shame 
He  clad  the  naked,  making  life  abhorred; 

He  saved  by  slaughter,  and  denied  a  grave. 


160  PRO  PATRIA 

n 

AMERICA'S  WAY 

But  thou,  my  country,  though  no  fault  be  thine 

For  that  red  horror  far  across  the  sea; 

Though  not  a  tortured  wretch  can  point  to  thee, 
And  curse  thee  for  the  selfishness  supine 
Of  those  great  Powers  that  cowardly  combine 

To  shield  the  Turk  in  his  iniquity; 

Yet,  since  thy  hand  is  innocent  and  free, 
Arise,  and  show  the  world  the  way  divine! 
Thou  canst  not  break  the  oppressor's  iron  rod, 

But  thou  canst  help  and  comfort  the  oppressed; 
Thou  canst  not  loose  the  captive's  heavy  chain, 
But  thou  canst  bind  his  wounds  and  soothe  his  pain. 

Armenia  calls  thee,  Sovereign  of  the  West, 
To  play  the  Good  Samaritan  for  God. 
1896. 


SICILY,  DECEMBER,   1908  161 


SICILY,   DECEMBER,   1908 

O  GARDEN  isle,  beloved  by  Sun  and  Sea, 
Whose  bluest  billows  kiss  thy  curving  bays, 
Whose  light  infolds  thy  hills  with  golden  rays, 

Filling  with  fruit  each  dark-leaved  orange-tree, 

What  hidden  hatred  hath  the  Earth  for  thee, 
That  once  again,  in  these  dark,  dreadful  days, 
Breaks  forth  in  trembling  rage,  and  swiftly  lays 

Thy  beauty  waste  in  wreck  and  agony! 

Is  Nature,  then,  a  strife  of  jealous  powers, 
And  man  the  plaything  of  unconscious  fate  ? 
Not  so,  my  troubled  heart!     God  reigns  above, 

And  man  is  greatest  in  his  darkest  hours. 
Walking  amid  the  cities  desolate, 

Behold  the  Son  of  God  in  human  love! 

Tertius  and  Henry  van  Dyke. 


162  PRO  PATRIA 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

THE  land  was  broken  in  despair, 

The  princes  quarrelled  in  the  dark, 
When  clear  and  tranquil,  through  the  troubled  air 
Of  selfish  minds  and  wills  that  did  not  dare, 
Your  star  arose,  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

O  virgin  breast  with  lilies  white, 

O  sun-burned  hand  that  bore  the  lance, 
You  taught  the  prayer  that  helps  men  to  unite, 
You  brought  the  courage  equal  to  the  fight, 
You  gave  a  heart  to  France! 

Your  king  was  crowned,  your  country  free, 

At  Rheims  you  had  your  soul's  desire: 
And  then,  at  Rouen,  maid  of  Domremy, 
The  black-robed  judges  gave  your  victory 
The  martyr's  crown  of  fire. 

And  now  again  the  times  are  ill, 

And  doubtful  leaders  miss  the  mark; 
The  people  lack  the  single  faith  and  will 
To  make  them  one, — your  country  needs  you  still,- 
Come  back  again,  Jeanne  d'Arc! 


JEANNE  D'ARC  163 

O  woman-star,  arise  once  more 

And  shine  to  bid  your  land  advance: 
The  old  heroic  trust  in  God  restore, 
Renew  the  brave,  unselfish  hopes  of  yore, 

And  give  a  heart  to  France! 
PARIS,  July,  1909. 


164  PRO   PATRIA 


NATIONAL  MONUMENTS 

COUNT  not  the  cost  of  honour  to  the  dead! 
The  tribute  that  a  mighty  nation  pays 
To  those  who  loved  her  well  in  former  days 

Means  more  than  gratitude  for  glories  fled; 

For  every  noble  man  that  she  hath  bred, 
Lives  in  the  bronze  and  marble  that  we  raise, 
Immortalised  by  art's  immortal  praise, 

To  lead  our  sons  as  he  our  fathers  led. 

These  monuments  of  manhood  strong  and  high 
Do  more  than  forts  or  battle-ships  to  keep 

Our  dear-bought  liberty.     They  fortify 
The  heart  of  youth  with  valour  wise  and  deep; 

They  build  eternal  bulwarks,  and  command 

Immortal  hosts  to  guard  our  native  land. 

February,  1905. 


THE  MONUMENT   OF  FRANCIS   MAKEMIE     165 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  FRANCIS  MAKEMIE 

(PRESBYTER  OF  CHRIST  IN  AMERICA,  1683-1708) 

To  thee,  plain  hero  of  a  rugged  race, 

We  bring  the  meed  of  praise  too  long  delayed! 
Thy  fearless  word  and  faithful  work  have  made 

For  God's  Republic  firmer  resting-place 

In  this  New  World:  for  thou  hast  preached  the  grace 
And  power  of  Christ  in  many  a  forest  glade, 
Teaching  the  truth  that  leaves  men  unafraid 

Of  frowning  tyranny  or  death's  dark  face. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  how  much  we  owe  to  thee, 
Makemie,  and  to  labour  such  as  thine, 
For  all  that  makes  America  the  shrine 

Of  faith  untrammelled  and  of  conscience  free  ? 

Stand  here,  grey  stone,  and  consecrate  the  sod 

Where  rests  this  brave  Scotch-Irish  man  of  God! 

April,  1908. 


i66  PRO   PATRIA 


THE  STATUE  OF  SHERMAN  BY  ST.  GAUDENS 

THIS  is  the  soldier  brave  enough  to  tell 
The  glory-dazzled  world  that  'war  is  hell': 
Lover  of  peace,  he  looks  beyond  the  strife, 
And  rides  through  hell  to  save  his  country's  life. 
April,  1904. 


'AMERICA  FOR  ME"  167 


"AMERICA  FOR  ME" 

'Tis  fine  to  see  the  Old  World,  and  travel  up  and  down 
Among  the  famous  palaces  and  cities  of  renown, 
To  admire  the  crumbly  castles  and  the  statues  of  the  kings, — 
But  now  I  think  I've  had  enough  of  antiquated  things. 

So  it's  home  again,  and  home  again,  America  for  me! 
My  heart  is  turning  home  again,  and  there  I  long  to  be, 
In  the  land  of  youth  and  freedom  beyond  the  ocean  bars, 
Where  the  air  is  full  of  sunlight  and  the  flag  is  full  of  stars. 

Oh,  London  is  a  man's  town,  there's  power  in  the  air; 
And  Paris  is  a  woman's  town,  with  flowers  in  her  hair; 
And  it's  sweet  to  dream  in  Venice,  and  it's  great  to  study  Rome; 
But  when  it  comes  to  living  there  is  no  place  like  home. 

I  like  the  German  fir- woods,  in  green  battalions  drilled; 
I  like  the  gardens  of  Versailles  with  flashing  fountains  filled; 
But,  oh,  to  take  your  hand,  my  dear,  and  ramble  for  a  day 
In  the  friendly  western  woodland  where  Nature  has  her  way! 

I  know  that  Europe's  wonderful,  yet  something  seems  to  lack: 
The  Past  is  too  much  with  her,  and  the  people  looking  back. 


168  PRO  PATRIA 

But  the  glory  of  the  Present  is  to  make  the  Future  free, — 
We  love  our -land  for  what  she  is  and  what  she  is  to  be. 

Oh,  it's  home  again,  and  home  again,  America  for  me! 
I  want  a  ship  that's  westward  bound  to  plough  the  rolling  sea, 
To  the  blessed  Land  of  Room  Enough  beyond  the  ocean  bars, 
Where  the  air  is  full  of  sunlight  and  the  flag  is  full  of  stars 
June,  1909. 


THE  BUILDERS  169 


THE   BUILDERS 

ODE  FOR  THE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY 

OF  PRINCETON  COLLEGE 

OCTOBER  21,  1896 

I 

INTO  the  dust  of  the  making  of  man 
Spirit  was  breathed  when  his  life  began, 
Lifting  him  up  from  his  low  estate, 
With  masterful  passion,  the  wish  to  create. 
Out  of  the  dust  of  his  making,  man 
Fashioned  his  works  as  the  ages  ran; 
Fortress,  and  palace,  and  temple,  and  tower, 
Filling  the  world  with  the  proof  of  his  power. 
Over  the  dust  that  awaits  him,  man, 
Building  the  walls  that  his  pride  doth  plan, 
Dreams  they  will  stand  in  the  light  of  the  sun 
Bearing  his  name  till  Time  is  done. 

II 

The  monuments  of  mortals 

Are  as  the  glory  of  the  grass; 
Through  Time's  dim  portals 

A  voiceless,  viewless  wind  doth  pass, 
The  blossoms  fall  before  it  in  a  day, 


170  PRO  PATRIA 

The  forest  monarchs  year  by  year  decay, 
And  man's  great  buildings  slowly  fade  away. 

One  after  one, 

They  pay  to  that  dumb  breath 
The  tribute  of  their  death, 

And  are  undone. 
The  towers  incline  to  dust, 
The  massive  girders  rust, 
The  domes  dissolve  in  air, 
The  pillars  that  upbear 
The  lofty  arches  crumble,  stone  by  stone, 
While  man  the  builder  looks  about  him  in  despair, 
For  all  his  works  of  pride  and  power  are  overthrown. 


Ill 

A  Voice  came  from  the  sky: 
"Set  thy  desires  more  high. 
Thy  buildings  fade  away 
Because  thou  buildest  clay. 
Now  make  the  fabric  sure 
With  stones  that  will  endure! 
Hewn  from  the  spiritual  rock, 

The  immortal  towers  of  the  soul 
At  Death's  dissolving  touch  shall  mock, 

And  stand  secure  while  aeons  roll." 


THE  BUILDERS 


IV 

Well  did  the  wise  in  heart  rejoice 
To  hear  the  summons  of  that  Voice, 

And  patiently  begin 

The  builder's  work  within, — 

Houses  not  made  with  hands, 

Nor  founded  on  the  sands. 
And  thou,  Revered  Mother,  at  whose  call 
We  come  to  keep  thy  joyous  festival, 
And  celebrate  thy  labours  on  the  walls  of  Truth 
Through  sevenscore  years  and  ten  of  thine  eternal  youth- 

A  master  builder  thou, 

And  on  thy  shining  brow, 
Like  Cybele,  in  fadeless  light  dost  wear 
A  diadem  of  turrets  strong  and  fair. 


I  see  thee  standing  in  a  lonely  land, 
But  late  and  hardly  won  from  solitude, 

Unpopulous  and  rude, — 
On  that  far  western  shore  I  see  thee  stand, 
Like  some  young  goddess  from  a  brighter  strand, 
While  in  thine  eyes  a  radiant  thought  is  born, 
Enkindling  all  thy  beauty  like  the  morn. 


172  PRO  PATRIA 

Sea-like  the  forest  rolled,  in  waves  of  green, 

And  few  the  lights  that  glimmered,  leagues  between. 

High  in  the  north,  for  fourscore  years  alone 

Fair  Harvard's  earliest  beacon-tower  had  shone 

When  Yale  was  lighted,  and  an  answering  ray 

Flashed  from  the  meadows  by  New  Haven  Bay. 

But  deeper  spread  the  forest,  and  more  dark, 

Where  first  Neshaminy  received  the  spark 

Of  sacred  learning  to  a  woodland  camp, 

And  Old  Log  College  glowed  with  Tennant's  lamp. 

Thine,  Alma  Mater,  was  the  larger  sight, 

That  saw  the  future  of  that  trembling  light, 

And  thine  the  courage,  thine  the  stronger  will, 

That  built  its  loftier  home  on  Princeton  Hill. 

"New  light!"  men  cried,  and  murmured  that  it  came 
From  an  unsanctioned  source  with  lawless  flame; 
It  shone  too  free,  for  still  the  church  and  school 
Must  only  shine  according  to  their  rule. 
But  Princeton  answered,  in  her  nobler  mood, 
"God  made  the  light,  and  all  the  light  is  good. 
There  is  no  war  between  the  old  and  new ; 
The  conflict  lies  between  the  false  and  true. 
The  stars,  that  high  in  heaven  their  courses  run, 
In  glory  differ,  but  their  light  is  one. 
The  beacons,  gleaming  o'er  the  sea  of  life, 


THE  BUILDERS  173 

Are  rivals  but  in  radiance,  not  in  strife. 
Shine  on,  ye  sister- towers,  across  the  night! 
I  too  will  build  a  lasting  house  of  light." 


VI 

Brave  was  that  word  of  faith  and  bravely  was  it  kept; 
With  never-wearying  zeal  that  faltered  not,  nor  slept, 
Our  Alma  Mater  toiled,  and  while  she  firmly  laid 
The  deep  foundation-walls,  at  all  her  toil  she  prayed. 
And  men  who  loved  the  truth  because  it  made  them  free, 
And  clearly  saw  the  twofold  Word  of  God  agree, 
Reading  from  Nature's  book  and  from  the  Bible's  page 
By  the  same  inward  ray  that  grows  from  age  to  age, 
Were  built  like  living  stones  that  beacon  to  uplift, 
And  drawing  light  from  heaven  gave  to  the  world  the  gift. 
Nor  ever,  while  they  searched  the  secrets  of  the  earth, 
Or  traced  the  stream  of  life  through  mystery  to  its  birth, 
Nor  ever,  while  they  taught  the  lightning-flash  to  bear 
The  messages  of  man  in  silence  through  the  air, 
Fell  from  their  home  of  light  one  false,  perfidious  ray 
To  blind  the  trusting  heart,  or  lead  the  life  astray. 
But  still,  while  knowledge  grew  more  luminous  and  broad 
It  lit  the  path  of  faith  and  showed  the  way  to  God. 


174  PRO   PATRIA 

VII 
Yet  not  for  peace  alone 

Labour  the  builders. 
Work  that  in  peace  has  grown 
Swiftly  is  overthrown, 
When  in  the  darkening  skies 
Storm-clouds  of  wrath  arise, 
And  through  the  cannon's  crash, 
War's  deadly  lightning-flash 

Smites  and  bewilders. 
Ramparts  of  strength  must  frown 
Round  every  placid  town 

And  city  splendid; 
All  that  our  fathers  wrought 
With  true  prophetic  thought, 

Must  be  defended! 

VIII 

But  who  could  raise  protecting  walls  for  thee, 
Thou  young,  defenceless  land  of  liberty? 
Or  who  could  build  a  fortress  strong  enough, 
Or  stretch  a  mighty  bulwark  long  enough 
To  hold  thy  far-extended  coast 
Against  the  overweening  host 
That  took  the  open  path  across  the  sea, 


THE  BUILDERS  175 

And  like  a  tempest  poured 
Their  desolating  horde, 
To  quench  thy  dawning  light  in  gloom  of  tyranny? 

Yet  not  unguarded  thou  wert  found 

When  on  thy  shore  with  sullen  sound 

The  blaring  trumpets  of  an  unjust  king 

Proclaimed  invasion.     From  the  ground, 

In  freedom's  darkest  hour,  there  seemed  to  spring 

Unconquerable  walls  for  her  defence; 

Not  trembling,  like  those  battlements  of  stone 

That  fell  when  Joshua's  horns  were  blown; 

But  standing  firm  the  living  rampart  rose, 

To  meet  the  onset  of  imperious  foes 
With  a  long  line  of  brave,  unyielding  men. 

This  was  thy  fortress,  well-defended  land, 

And  on  these  walls,  the  patient,  building  hand 

Of  Princeton  laboured  with  the  force  of  ten. 

Her  sons  were  foremost  in  the  furious  fight; 

Her  sons  were  firmest  to  uphold  the  right 

In  council-chambers  of  the  new-born  State, 
And  prove  that  he  who  would  be  free  must  first  be  great 

In  heart,  and  high  in  thought,  and  strong 

In  purpose  not  to  do  or  suffer  wrong. 

Such  were  the  men,  impregnable  to  fear, ' 

Whose  souls  were  framed  and  fashioned  here; 
And  when  war  shook  the  land  with  threatening  shock, 


176  PRO  PATRIA 

The  men  of  Princeton  stood  like  muniments  of  rock. 

Nor  has  the  breath  of  Time 

Dissolved  that  proud  array 

Of  never-broken  strength: 

For  though  the  rocks  decay, 

And  all  the  iron  bands 

Of  earthly  strongholds  are  unloosed  at  length, 
And  buried  deep  in  gray  oblivion's  sands; 

The  work  that  heroes'  hands 
Wrought  in  the  light  of  freedom's  natal  day 

Shall  never  fade  away, 

But  lifts  itself,  sublime 

Into  a  lucid  sphere, 

For  ever  calm  and  clear, 
Preserving  in  the  memory  of  the  fathers'  deed, 
A  never-failing  fortress  for  their  children's  need. 
There  we  confirm  our  hearts  to-day,  and  read 
On  many  a  stone  the  signature  of  fame, 
The  builder's  mark,  our  Alma  Mater's  name. 

IX 

Bear  with  us  then  a  moment,  while  we  turn 
From  all  the  present  splendours  of  this  place — 
The  lofty  towers  that  like  a  dream  have  grown 
Where  once  old  Nassau  Hall  stood  all  alone — 
Back  to  that  ancient  time,  with  hearts  that  burn 


THE  BUILDERS  177 

In  filial  gratitude,  to  trace 
The  glory  of  our  mother's  best  degree, 

In  that  "high  son  of  Liberty," 

Who  like  a  granite  block, 

Riven  from  Scotland's  rock, 
Stood  loyal  here  to  keep  Columbia  free. 
Born  far  away  beyond  the  ocean's  tide, 
He  found  his  fatherland  upon  this  side; 
And  every  drop  of  ardent  blood  that  ran 
Through  his  great  heart,  was  true  American. 
He  held  no  fealty  to  a  distant  throne, 
But  made  his  new-found  country's  cause  his  own. 

In  peril  and  distress, 

In  toil  and  weariness, 

When  darkness  overcast  her 

With  shadows  of  disaster, 

And  voices  of  confusion 

Proclaimed  her  hope  delusion, 

Robed  in  his  preacher's  gown, 

He  dared  the  danger  down; 
Like  some  old  prophet  chanting  an  inspired  rune 
In  freedom's  councils  rang  the  voice  of  Witherspoon. 

And  thou,  my  country,  write  it  on  thy  heart, 
Thy  sons  are  they  who  nobly  take  thy  part; 
Who  dedicates  his  manhood  at  thy  shrine, 


178  PRO  PATRIA 

Wherever  born,  is  born  a  son  of  thine. 
Foreign  in  name,  but  not  in  soul,  they  come 
To  find  in  thee  their  long-desired  home; 
Lovers  of  liberty  and  haters  of  disorder, 
They  shall  be  built  in  strength  along  thy  border. 

Dream  not  thy  future  foes 
Will  all  be  foreign-born ! 
Turn  thy  clear  look  of  scorn 
Upon  thy  children  who  oppose 
Their  passions  wild  and  policies  of  shame 
To  wreck  the  righteous  splendour  of  thy  name. 

Untaught  and  overconfident  they  rise, 
With  folly  on  their  lips,  and  envy  in  their  eyes: 
Strong  to  destroy,  but  powerless  to  create, 
And  ignorant  of  all  that  made  our  fathers  great, 
Their  hands  would  take  away  thy  golden  crown, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  thy  freedom  down 
In  Anarchy's  ocean,  dark  and  desolate. 
O  should  that  storm  descend, 
What  fortress  shall  defend 
The  land  our  fathers  wrought  for, 
The  liberties  they  fought  for? 
What  bulwark  shall  secure 

Her  shrines  of  law,  and  keep  her  founts  of  justice  pure  ? 
Then,  ah  then, 


THE  BUILDERS  179 

As  in  the  olden  days, 

The  builders  must  upraise 

A  rampart  of  indomitable  men. 

And  once  again, 

Dear  Mother,  if  thy  heart  and  hand  be  true, 
There  will  be  building  work  for  thee  to  do; 

Yea,  more  than  once  again, 

Thou  shalt  win  lasting  praise, 
And  never-dying  honour  shall  be  thine, 
For  setting  many  stones  in  that  illustrious  line, 
To  stand  unshaken  in  the  swirling  strife, 
And  guard  their  country's  honour  as  her  life. 


Softly,  my  harp,  and  let  me  lay  the  touch 
Of  silence  on  these  rudely  clanging  strings; 

For  he  who  sings 
Even  of  noble  conflicts  overmuch, 
Loses  the  inward  sense  of  better  things; 

And  he  who  makes  a  boast 
Of  knowledge,  darkens  that  which  counts  the  most,- 

The  insight  of  a  wise  humility 
That  reverently  adores  what  none  can  see. 

The  glory  of  our  life  below 
Comes  not  from  what  we  do,  or  what  we  know, 


i8o  PRO   PATRIA 

But  dwells  forevermore  in  what  we  are. 

There  is  an  architecture  grander  far 
Than  all  the  fortresses  of  war, 
More  inextinguishably  bright 

Than  learning's  lonely  towers  of  light. 

Framing  its  walls  of  faith  and  hope  and  love 
In  souls  of  men,  it  lifts  above 
The  frailty  of  our  earthly  home 
An  everlasting  dome; 

The  sanctuary  of  the  human  host, 

The  living  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 


XI 

If  music  led  the  builders  long  ago, 

When  Arthur  planned  the  halls  of  Camelot, 
And  made  the  royal  city  grow, 

Fair  as  a  flower  in  that  forsaken  spot; 
What  sweeter  music  shall  we  bring, 
To  weave  a  harmony  divine 

Of  prayer  and  holy  thought 
Into  the  labours  of  this  loftier  shrine, 

This  consecrated  hill, 
Where  through  so  many  a  year 
Our  Alma  Mater's  hand  hath  wrought, 
With  toil  serene  and  still, 


THE   BUILDERS  181 

And  heavenly  hope,  to  rear 
Eternal  dwellings  for  the  Only  King? 
Here  let  no  martial  trumpets  blow, 
Nor  instruments  of  pride  proclaim 
The  loud  exultant  notes  of  fame! 
But  let  the  chords  be  clear  and  low, 
And  let  the  anthem  deeper  grow, 
And  let  it  move  more  solemnly  and  slow; 
For  only  such  an  ode 
Can  seal  the  harmony 
Of  that  deep  masonry 
Wherein  the  soul  of  man  is  framed  for  God's  abode. 

XII 

O  Thou  whose  boundless  love  bestows 
The  joy  of  earth,  the  hope  of  Heaven, 

And  whose  unchartered  mercy  flows 
O'er  all  the  blessings  Thou  hast  given; 

Thou  by  whose  light  alone  we  see; 

And  by  whose  truth  our  souls  set  free 

Are  made  imperishably  strong; 

Hear  Thou  the  solemn  music  of  our  song. 

O  grant  the  knowledge  that  we  need 
To  solve  the  questions  of  the  mind, 
And  light  our  candle  while  we  read, 


i82  PRO  PATRIA 

To  keep  our  hearts  from  going  blind; 
Enlarge  our  vision  to  behold 
The  wonders  Thou  hast  wrought  of  old; 
Reveal  thyself  in  every  law, 
And  gild  the  towers  of  truth  with  holy  awe. 

Be  Thou  our  strength  if  war's  wild  gust 
Shall  rage  around  us,  loud  and  fierce; 
Confirm  our  souls  and  let  our  trust 

Be  like  a  shield  that  none  can  pierce; 
Renew  the  courage  that  prevails, 
The  steady  faith  that  never  fails, 
And  make  us  stand  in  every  fight 
Firm  as  a  fortress  to  defend  the  right. 

O  God,  control  us  as  Thou  wilt, 

And  guide  the  labour  of  our  hand; 
Let  all  our  work  be  surely  built 

As  Thou,  the  architect,  hast  planned; 
But  whatso'er  thy  power  shall  make 
Of  these  frail  lives,  do  not  forsake 
Thy  dwelling:  let  thy  presence  rest 
For  ever  in  the  temple  of  our  breast. 


SPIRIT   OF  THE  EVERLASTING  BOY        183 


SPIRIT   OF  THE   EVERLASTING   BOY 

ODE   FOR  THE   HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY   OF 
LAWRENCEVILLE   SCHOOL 
JUNE  ii,  1910 


THE  British  bard  who  looked  on  Eton's  walls, 
Endeared  by  distance  in  the  pearly  gray 
And  soft  aerial  blue  that  ever  falls 
On  English  landscape  with  the  dying  day, 
Beheld  in  thought  his  boyhood  far  away, 
Its  random  raptures  and  its  festivals 

Of  noisy  mirth, 

The  brief  illusion  of  its  idle  joys, 
And  mourned  that  none  of  these  can  stay 
With  men,  whom  life  inexorably  calls 
To  face  the  grim  realities  of  earth. 
His  pensive  fancy  pictured  there  at  play 
From  year  to  year  the  careless  bands  of  boys, 
Unconscious  victims  kept  in  golden  state, 

While  haply  they  await 
The  dark  approach  of  disenchanting  Fate, 

To  hale  them  to  the  sacrifice 


184  PRO   PATRIA 

Of  Pain  and  Penury  and  Grief  and  Care, 
Slow-withering  Age,  or  Failure's  swift  despair. 
Half -pity  and  half -envy  dimmed  the  eyes 
Of  that  old  poet,  gazing  on  the  scene 
Where  long  ago  his  youth  had  flowed  serene, 
And  all  the  burden  of  his  ode  was  this: 
"Where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

II 

But  not  for  us,  O  plaintive  elegist, 

Thine  epicedial  tone  of  sad  farewell 

To  joy  in  wisdom  and  to  thought  in  youth ! 

Our  western  Muse  would  keep  her  tryst 

With  sunrise,  not  with  sunset,  and  foretell 

In  boyhood's  bliss  the  dawn  of  manhood's  truth. 

Ill 

O  spirit  of  the  everlasting  boy, 

Alert,  elate, 

And  confident  that  life  is  good, 
Thou  knockest  boldly  at  the  gate, 

In  hopeful  hardihood, 
Eager  to  enter  and  enjoy 

Thy  new  estate. 


SPIRIT  OF  THE  EVERLASTING  BOY        185 

Through  the  old  house  thou  runnest  everywhere, 
Bringing  a  breath  of  folly  and  fresh  air. 
Ready  to  make  a  treasure  of  each  toy, 
Or  break  them  all  in  discontented  mood; 

Fearless  of  Fate, 

Yet  strangely  fearful  of  a  comrade's  laugh ; 
Reckless  and  timid,  hard  and  sensitive; 
In  talk  a  rebel,  full  of  mocking  chaff, 

At  heart  devout  conservative; 
In  love  with  love,  yet  hating  to  be  kissed; 
Inveterate  optimist, 
And  judge  severe, 

In  reason  cloudy  but  in  feeling  clear; 
Keen  critic,  ardent  hero-worshipper, 
Impatient  of  restraint  in  little  ways, 

Yet  ever  ready  to  confer 

On  chosen  leaders  boundless  power  and  praise; 
Adventurous  spirit  burning  to  explore 
Untrodden  paths  where  hidden  danger  lies, 
And  homesick  heart  looking  with  wistful  eyes 
Through  every  twilight  to  a  mother's  door; 
Thou  daring,  darling,  inconsistent  boy, 

How  dull  the  world  would  be 
Without  thy  presence,  dear  barbarian, 
And  happy  lord  of  high  futurity! 
Be  what  thou  art,  our  trouble  and  our  joy, 


i86  PRO  PATRIA 

Our  hardest  problem  and  our  brightest  hope! 
And  while  thine  elders  lead  thee  up  the  slope 
Of  knowledge,  let  them  learn  from  teaching  thee 
That  vital  joy  is  part  of  nature's  plan, 
And  he  who  keeps  the  spirit  of  the  boy 
Shall  gladly  grow  to  be  a  happy  man. 


IV 

What  constitutes  a  school  ? 
Not  ancient  halls  and  ivy-mantled  towers, 

Where  dull  traditions  rule 
With  heavy  hand  youth's  lightly  springing  powers; 

Not  spacious  pleasure  courts, 
And  lofty  temples  of  athletic  fame, 

Where  devotees  of  sports 
Mistake  a  pastime  for  life's  highest  aim; 

Not  fashion,  nor  renown 
Of  wealthy  patronage  and  rich  estate; 

No,  none  of  these  can  crown 
A  school  with  light  and  make  it  truly  great. 

But  masters,  strong  and  wise, 
Who  teach  because  they  love  the  teacher's  task, 

And  find  their  richest  prize 
In  eyes  that  open  and  in  minds  that  ask; 

And  boys,  with  heart  aglow 


SPIRIT  OF  THE  EVERLASTING  BOY        187 

To  try  their  youthful  vigour  on  their  work, 

Eager  to  learn  and  grow, 
And  quick  to  hate  a  coward  or  a  shirk: 

These  constitute  a  school, — 
A  vital  forge  of  weapons  keen  and  bright, 

Where  living  sword  and  tool 
Are  tempered  for  true  toil  or  noble  fight! 

But  let  not  wisdom  scorn 
The  hours  of  pleasure  in  the  playing  fields: 

There  also  strength  is  born, 
And  every  manly  game  a  virtue  yields. 

Fairness  and  self-control, 
Good-humour,  pluck,  and  patience  in  the  race, 

Will  make  a  lad  heart-whole 
To  win  with  honour,  lose  without  disgrace. 

Ah,  well  for  him  who  gains 
In  such  a  school  apprenticeship  to  life: 

With  him  the  joy  of  youth  remains 
In  later  lessons  and  in  larger  strife! 


V 

On  Jersey's  rolling  plain,  where  Washington, 

In  midnight  marching  at  the  head 

Of  ragged  regiments,  his  army  led 

To  Princeton's  victory  of  the  rising  sun; 


i88  PRO   PATRIA 

Here  in  this  liberal  land,  by  battle  won 

For  Freedom  and  the  rule 
Of  equal  rights  for  every  child  of  man, 

Arose  a  democratic  school, 
To  train  a  virile  race  of  sons  to  bear 
With  thoughtful  joy  the  name  American, 
And  serve  the  God  who  heard  their  father's  prayer. 
No  cloister,  dreaming  in  a  world  remote 
From  that  real  world  wherein  alone  we  live; 
No  mimic  court,  where  titled  names  denote 
A  dignity  that  only  worth  can  give; 
But  here  a  friendly  house  of  learning  stood, 
With  open  door  beside  the  broad  highway, 
And  welcomed  lads  to  study  and  to  play 
In  generous  rivalry  of  brotherhood. 
A  hundred  years  have  passed,  and  Lawrenceville, 
In  beauty  and  in  strength  renewed, 
Stands  with  her  open  portal  still, 
And  neither  time  nor  fortune  brings 
To  her  deep  spirit  any  change  of  mood, 
Or  faltering  from  the  faith  she  held  of  old. 
Still  to  the  democratic  creed  she  clings: 
That  manhood  needs  nor  rank  nor  gold 
To  make  it  noble  in  our  eyes; 
That  every  boy  is  born  with  royal  right, 
From  blissful  ignorance  to  rise 


SPIRIT  OF  THE  EVERLASTING  BOY        189 

To  joy  more  lasting  and  more  bright, 

In  mastery  of  body  and  of  mind, 

King  of  himself  and  servant  of  mankind. 

VI 

Old  Lawrenceville, 
Thy  happy  bell 
Shall  ring  to-day, 
O'er  vale  and  hill, 
O'er  mead  and  dell, 
While  far  away, 
With  silent  thrill, 
The  echoes  roll 
Through  many  a  soul, 
That  knew  thee  well, 
In  boyhood's  day, 
And  loves  thee  still. 

Ah,  who  can  tell 
How  far  away, 
Some  sentinel 
Of  God's  good  will, 
In  forest  cool, 
Or  desert  gray, 
By  lonely  pool, 
Or  barren  hill, 


190  PRO  PATRIA 

Shall  faintly  hear, 

With  inward  ear, 

The  chiming  bell, 

.  Of  his  old  school, 

Through  darkness  pealing; 

And  lowly  kneeling, 
Shall  feel  the  spell 
Of  grateful  tears 
His  eyelids  fill; 
And  softly  pray 
To  Him  who  hears: 

God  bless  old  Lawrenceville! 


WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG  191 


WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG 

PHI   BETA  KAPPA   ODE 

HARVARD  UNIVERSITY 

JUNE  30,  1910 


ALL  day  long  in  the  city's  canyon-street, 
With  its  populous  cliffs  alive  on  either  side, 
I  saw  a  river  of  marching  men  like  a  tide 
Flowing  after  the  flag:  and  the  rhythmic  beat 

Of  the  drums,  and  the  bugles'  resonant  blare 
Metred  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  a  myriad  feet, 
While  the  red-white-and-blue  was  fluttering  everywhere, 
And  the  heart  of  the  crowd  kept  time  to  a  martial  air: 

O  brave  flag,  O  bright  flag,  O  flag  to  lead  the  free  I 

The  glory  of  thy  silver  stars, 

Engrailed  in  blue  above  the  bars 

Of  red  for  courage,  white  for  truth, 

Has  brought  the  world  a  second  youth 
And  drawn  a  hundred  million  hearts  to  follow  after  thee. 


i92  PRO  PATRIA 


Old  Cambridge  saw  thee  first  unfurled, 
By  Washington's  far-reaching  hand, 
To  greet,  in  Seventy-six,  the  wintry  morn 
Of  a  new  year,  and  herald  to  the  world 
Glad  tidings  from  a  Western  land, — 
A  people  and  a  hope  new-born ! 
The  double  cross  then  filled  thine  azure  field, 
In  token  of  a  spirit  loath  to  yield 
The  breaking  ties  that  bound  thee  to  a  throne. 
But  not  for  long  thine  oriflamme  could  bear 
That  symbol  of  an  outworn  trust  in  kings. 
The  wind  that  bore  thee  out  on  widening  wings 
Called  for  a  greater  sign  and  all  thine  own, — 
A  new  device  to  speak  of  heavenly  laws 
And  lights  that  surely  guide  the  people's  cause. 
Oh,  greatly  did  they  hope,  and  greatly  dare, 
Who  bade  the  stars  in  heaven  fight  for  them, 
And  set  upon  their  battle-flag  a  fair 
New  constellation  as  a  diadem! 
Along  the  blood-stained  banks  of  Brandywine 
The  ragged  regiments  were  rallied  to  this  sign; 
Through  Saratoga's  woods  it  fluttered  bright 
Amid  the  perils  of  the  hard- won  fight ; 
O'er  Yorktown's  meadows  broad  and  green 


WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG  193 

It  hailed  the  glory  of  the  final  scene; 

And  when  at  length  Manhattan  saw 

The  last  invaders'  line  of  scarlet  coats 

Pass  Bowling  Green,  and  fill  the  waiting  boats 

And  sullenly  withdraw, 

The  flag  that  proudly  flew 
Above  the  battered  line  of  buff  and  blue, 
Marching,  with  rattling  drums  and  shrilling  pipes, 
Along  the  Bowery  and  down  Broadway, 
Was  this  that  leads  the  great  parade  to-day, — 
The  glorious  banner  of  the  stars  and  stripes. 

First  of  the  flags  of  earth  to  dare 

A  heraldry  so  high; 
First  of  the  flags  of  earth  to  bear 

The  blazons  of  the  sky; 
Long  may  thy  constellation  glow, 

Foretelling  happy  fate; 
Wider  thy  starry  circle  grow, 

And  every  star  a  State! 

Ill 

Pass  on,  pass  on,  ye  flashing  files 
Of  men  who  march  in  militant  array; 
Ye  thrilling  bugles,  throbbing  drums, 
Ring  out,  roll  on,  and  die  away; 


194  PRO  PATRIA 

And  fade,  ye  crowds,  with  the  fading  day! 
Around  the  city's  lofty  piles 
Of  steel  and  stone 
The  lilac  veil  of  dusk  is  thrown, 
Entangled  full  of  sparks  of  fairy  light; 
And  the  never-silent  heart  of  the  city  hums 
To  a  homeward-turning  tune  before  the  night. 
But  far  above,  on  the  sky-line's  broken  height, 
From  all  the  towers  and  domes  outlined 
In  gray  and  gold  along  the  city's  crest, 
I  see  the  rippling  flag  still  take  the  wind 
With  a  promise  of  good  to  come  for  all  mankind. 


IV 

O  banner  of  the  west, 

No  proud  and  brief  parade, 

That  glorifies  a  nation's  holiday 

With  show  of  troops  for  warfare  dressed, 
Can  rightly  measure  or  display 
The  mighty  army  thou  hast  made 

Loyal  to  guard  thy  more  than  royal  sway. 
Millions  have  come  across  the  sea 
To  find  beneath  thy  shelter  room  to  grow; 

Millions  were  born  beneath  thy  folds  and  know 
No  other  flag  but  thee; 


WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG  195 

And  other,  darker  millions  bore  the  yoke 
Of  bondage  in  thy  borders  till  the  voice 

Of  Lincoln  spoke, 
And  sent  thee  forth  to  set  the  bondmen  free. 

Rejoice,  dear  flag,  rejoice! 

Since  thou  hast  proved  and  passed  that  bitter  strife, 
Richer  thy  red  with  blood  of  heroes  wet, 
Purer  thy  white  through  sacrificial  life, 
Brighter  thy  blue  wherein  new  stars  are  set. 

Thou  art  become  a  sign, 
Revealed  in  heaven  to  speak  of  things  divine: 

Of  Truth  that  dares 

To  slay  the  lie  it  sheltered  unawares; 

Of  Courage  fearless  in  the  fight, 
Yet  ever  quick  its  foemen  to  forgive; 
Of  Conscience  earnest  to  maintain  its  right 
And  gladly  grant  the  same  to  all  who  live. 

Thy  staff  is  deeply  planted  in  the  fact 

That  nothing  can  ennoble  man 

Save  his  own  act, 

And  naught  can  make  him  worthy  to  be  free 
But  practice  in  the  school  of  liberty. 
The  cords  are  two  that  lift  thee  to  the  sky: 
Firm  faith  in  God,  the  King  who  rules  on  high; 

And  never-failing  trust 
In  human  nature,  full  of  faults  and  flaws, 


196  PRO  PATRIA 

Yet  ever  answering  to  the  inward  call 

That  bids  it  set  the  "ought"  above  the  "must," 

In  all  its  errors  wiser  than  it  seems, 

In  all  its  failures  full  of  generous  dreams, 

Through  endless  conflict  rising  without  pause 

To  self-dominion,  charactered  in  laws 

That  pledge  fair-play  alike  to  great  and  small, 

And  equal  rights  for  each  beneath  the  rule  of  all. 

These  are  thy  halyards,  banner  bold, 

And  while  these  hold, 

Thy  brightness  from  the  sky  shall  never  fall, 
Thy  broadening  empire  never  know  decrease, — 
Thy  strength  is  union  and  thy  glory  peace. 


Look  forth  across  thy  widespread  lands, 
O  flag,  and  let  thy  stars  to-night  be  eyes 

To  see  the  visionary  hosts 
Of  men  and  women  grateful  to  be  thine, 

That  joyfully  arise 
From  all  thy  borders  and  thy  coasts, 
And  follow  after  thee  in  endless  line! 
They  lift  to  thee  a  forest  of  saluting  hands; 
They  hail  thee  with  a  rolling  ocean-roar 

Of  cheers;  and  as  the  echo  dies, 


WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG  197 

There  comes  a  sweet  and  moving  song 
Of  treble  voices  from  the  childish  throng 
Who  run  to  thee  from  every  school-house  door. 
Behold  thine  army!  Here  thy  power  lies: 
The  men  whom  freedom  has  made  strong, 
And  bound  to  follow  thee  by  willing  vows; 

The  women  greatened  by  the  joys 
Of  motherhood  to  rule  a  happy  house; 

The  vigorous  girls  and  boys, 
Whose  eager  faces  and  unclouded  brows 
Foretell  the  future  of  a  noble  race, 
Rich  in  the  wealth  of  wisdom  and  true  worth! 
While  millions  such  as  these  to  thee  belong, 

What  foe  can  do  thee  wrong, 
What  jealous  rival  rob  thee  of  thy  place 

Foremost  of  all  the  flags  of  earth  ? 


VI 

My  vision  darkens  as  the  night  descends; 

And  through  the  mystic  atmosphere 

I  feel  the  creeping  coldness  that  portends 
A  change  of  spirit  in  my  dream 

The  multitude  that  moved  with  song  and  cheer 
Have  vanished,  yet  a  living  stream 
Flows  on  and  follows  still  the  flag, 


198  PRO  PATRIA 

But  silent  now,  with  leaden  feet  that  lag 

And  falter  in  the  deepening  gloom, — 
A  weird  battalion  bringing  up  the  rear. 
Ah,  who  are  these  on  whom  the  vital  bloom 
Of  life  has  withered  to  the  dust  of  doom  ? 
These  little  pilgrims  prematurely  worn 
And  bent  as  if  they  bore  the  weight  of  years  ? 
These  childish  faces,  pallid  and  forlorn, 
Too  dull  for  laughter  and  too  hard  for  tears? 
Is  this  the  ghost  of  that  insane  crusade 
That  led  ten  thousand  children  long  ago, 
A  flock  of  innocents,  deceived,  betrayed, 
Yet  pressing  on  through  want  and  woe 
To  meet  their  fate,  faithful  and  unafraid  ? 

Nay,  for  a  million  children  now 
Are  marching  in  the  long  pathetic  line, 
With  weary  step  and  early  wrinkled  brow; 
And  at  their  head  appears  no  holy  sign 

Of  hope  in  heaven; 

For  unto  them  is  given 
No  cross  to  carry,  but  a  cross  to  drag. 
Before  their  strength  is  ripe  they  bear 
The  load  of  labour,  toiling  underground 
In  dangerous  mines  and  breathing  heavy  air 
Of  crowded  shops;  their  tender  lives  are  bound 
To  service  of  the  whirling,  clatttering  wheels 


WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG  199 

That  fill  the  factories  with  dust  and  noise; 

They  are  not  girls  and  boys, 
But  little  " hands"  who  blindly,  dumbly  feed 
With  their  own  blood  the  hungry  god  of  Greed. 

Robbed  of  their  natural  joys, 
And  wounded  with  a  scar  that  never  heals, 
They  stumble  on  with  heavy-laden  soul, 
And  fall  by  thousands  on  the  highway  lined 
With  little  graves,  or  reach  at  last  their  goal 
Of  stunted  manhood  and  embittered  age, 
To  brood  awhile  with  dark  and  troubled  mind, 
Beside  the  smouldering  fire  of  sullen  rage, 
On  life's  unfruitful  work  and  niggard  wage. 
Are  these  the  regiments  that  Freedom  rears 

To  serve  her  cause  in  coming  years? 
Nay,  every  life  that  Avarice  doth  maim 
And  beggar  in  the  helpless  days  of  youth, 

Shall  surely  claim 

A  just  revenge,  and  take  it  without  ruth; 
And  every  soul  denied  the  right  to  grow 
Beneath  the  flag,  shall  be  its  secret  foe. 
Bow  down,  dear  land,  in  penitence  and  shame! 
Remember  now  thine  oath,  so  nobly  sworn, 

To  guard  an  equal  lot 
For  every  child  within  thy  borders  born ! 
These  are  thy  children  whom  thou  hast  forgot: 


200  PRO  PATRIA 

They  have  the  bitter  right  to  live,  but  not 
The  blessed  right  to  look  for  happiness. 
O  lift  thy  liberating  hand  once  more, 
To  loose  thy  little  ones  from  dark  duress; 
The  vital  gladness  to  their  hearts  restore 
In  healthful  lessons  and  in  happy  play; 
And  set  them  free  to  climb  the  upward  way 
That  leads  to  self-reliant  nobleness. 
Speak  out,  my  country,  speak  at  last, 

As  thou  hast  spoken  in  the  past, 

And  clearly,  bravely  say: 

"I  will  defend 

"The  coming  race  on  whom  my  hopes  depend: 
"Beneath  my  flag  and  on  my  sacred  soil 
"No  child  shall  bear  the  crushing  yoke  of  toil." 


VII 

Look  up,  look  up,  ye  downcast  eyes! 

The  night  is  almost  gone: 
Along  the  new  horizon  flies 

The  banner  of  the  dawn; 
The  eastern  sky  is  banded  low 

With  white  and  crimson  bars, 
While  far  above  the  morning  glow 

The  everlasting  stars. 


WHO  FOLLOW  THE  FLAG  201 

O  bright  flag,  O  brave  flag,  O  flag  to  lead  the  free! 

The  hand  of  God  thy  colours  blent, 

And  heaven  to  earth  thy  glory  lent, 

To  shield  the  weak,  and  guide  the  strong 

To  make  an  end  of  human  wrong, 
And  draw  a  countless  human  host  to  follow  after  thee! 


IN   PRAISE   OF   POETS 


MOTHER  EARTH 

MOTHER  of  all  the  high-strung  poets  and  singers  departed, 
Mother  of  all  the  grass  that  weaves  over  their  graves  the  glory 

of  the  field, 
Mother  of  all  the  manifold  forms  of  life,  deep-bosomed,  patient, 

impassive, 

Silent  brooder  and  nurse  of  lyrical  joys  and  sorrows! 
Out  of  thee,  yea,  surely  out  of  the  fertile  depth  below  thy 

breast, 

Issued  in  some  strange  way,  thou  lying  motionless,  voiceless, 
All  these  songs  of  nature,  rhythmical,  passionate,  yearning, 
Coming  in  music  from  earth,  but  not  unto  earth  returning. 

Dust  are  the  blood-red  hearts  that  beat  in  time  to  these 

measures, 

Thou  hast  taken  them  back  to  thyself,  secretly,  irresistibly 
Drawing  the  crimson  currents  of  life  'down,  down,  down 
Deep  into  thy  bosom  again,  as  a  river  is  lost  in  the  sand. 
But  the  souls  of  the  singers  have  entered  into  the  songs  that 

revealed  them, — 
Passionate  songs,  immortal  songs  of  joy  and  grief  and  love  and 

longing, 

205 


206  IN  PRAISE   OF  POETS 

Floating  from  heart  to  heart  of  thy  children,  they  echo  above 

thee: 
Do  they  not  utter  thy  heart,  the  voices  of  those  that  love  thee? 

Long  hadst  thou  lain  like  a  queen  transformed  by  some  old 

enchantment 

Into  an  alien  shape,  mysterious,  beautiful,  speechless, 
Knowing  not  who  thou  wert,  till  the  touch  of  thy  Lord  and 

Lover 

Wakened  the  man-child  within  thee  to  tell  thy  secret. 
All  of  thy  flowers  and  birds  and  forests  and  flowing  waters 
Are  but  the  rhythmical  forms  to  reveal  the  life  of  the  spirit; 
Thou  thyself,  earth-mother,  in  mountain  and  meadow  and 

ocean, 

Holdest  the  poem  of  God,  eternal  thought  and  emotion. 
December  y  1905. 


MILTON  207 


MILTON 


LOVER  of  beauty,  walking  on  the  height 

Of  pure  philosophy  and  tranquil  song; 

Born  to  behold  the  visions  that  belong 
To  those  who  dwell  in  melody  and  light; 
Milton,  thou  spirit  delicate  and  bright! 

What  drew  thee  down  to  join  the  Roundhead 
throng 

Of  iron-sided  warriors,  rude  and  strong, 
Fighting  for  freedom  in  a  world  half  night  ? 

Lover  of  Liberty  at  heart  wast  thou, 
Above  all  beauty  bright,  all  music  clear: 

To  thee  she  bared  her  bosom  and  her  brow, 
Breathing  her  virgin  promise  in  thine  ear, 

And  bound  thee  to  her  with  a  double  vow, — 
Exquisite  Puritan,  grave  Cavalier! 


208  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 


n 

The  cause,  the  cause  for  which  thy  soul  resigned 
Her  singing  robes  to  battle  on  the  plain, 
Was  won,  O  poet,  and  was  lost  again; 

And  lost  the  labour  of  thy  lonely  mind 

On  weary  tasks  of  prose.     What  wilt  thou  find 
To  comfort  thee  for  all  the  toil  and  pain? 
What  solace,  now  thy  sacrifice  is  vain 

And  thou  art  left  forsaken,  poor,  and  blind? 

Like  organ-music  comes  the  deep  reply: 

"The  cause  of  truth  looks  lost,  but  shall  be  won. 

For  God  hath  given  to  mine  inward  eye 
Vision  of  England  soaring  to  the  sun. 

And  granted  me  great  peace  before  I  die, 
In  thoughts  of  lowly  duty  bravely  done." 


Ill 

O  bend  again  above  thine  organ-board, 
Thou  blind  old  poet  longing  for  repose! 
Thy  Master  claims  thy  service  not  with  those 

Who  only  stand  and  wait  for  His  reward; 

He  pours  the  heavenly  gift  of  song  restored 
Into  thy  breast,  and  bids  thee  nobly  close 


MILTON  209 

A  noble  life,  with  poetry  that  flows 
In  mighty  music  of  the  major  chord. 

Where  hast  thou  learned  this  deep,  majestic  strain, 

Surpassing  all  thy  youthful  lyric  grace, 
To  sing  of  Paradise  ?    Ah,  not  in  vain 

The  griefs  that  won  at  Dante's  side  thy  place, 
And  made  thee,  Milton,  by  thy  years  of  pain, 

The  loftiest  poet  of  the  Saxon  racel 
1908. 


210  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 


WORDSWORTH 

WORDSWORTH,  thy  music  like  a  river  rolls 
Among  the  mountains,  and  thy  song  is  fed 
By  living  springs  far  up  the  watershed; 

No  whirling  flood  nor  parching  drought  controls 

The  crystal  current:  even  on  the  shoals 

It  murmurs  clear  and  sweet;  and  when  its  bed 
Deepens  below  mysterious  cliffs  of  dread, 

Thy  voice  of  peace  grows  deeper  in  our  souls. 

But  thou  in  youth  hast  known  the  breaking  stress 
Of  passion,  and  hast  trod  despair's  dry  ground 

Beneath  black  thoughts  that  wither  and  destroy. 
Ah,  wanderer,  led  by  human  tenderness 
Home  to  the  heart  of  Nature,  thou  hast  found 

The  hidden  Fountain  of  Recovered  Joy. 
October,  1906. 


KEATS  211 


KEATS 

THE  melancholy  gift  Aurora  gained 

From  Jove,  that  her  sad  lover  should  not  see 
The  face  of  death,  no  goddess  asked  for  thee, 

My  Keats!  But  when  the  scarlet  blood-drop  stained 

Thy  pillow,  thou  didst  read  the  fate  ordained, — 
Brief  life,  wild  love,  a  flight  of  poesy! 
And  then, — a  shadow  fell  on  Italy: 

Thy  star  went  down  before  its  brightness  waned. 

Yet  thou  hast  won  the  gift  Tithonus  missed: 
Never  to  feel  the  pain  of  growing  old, 

Nor  lose  the  blissful  sight  of  beauty's  truth, 
But  with  the  ardent  lips  Urania  kissed 
To  breathe  thy  song,  and,  ere  thy  heart  grew  cold; 

Become  the  Poet  of  Immortal  Youth. 
August,  1906. 


212  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 


SHELLEY 

KNIGHT-ERRANT  of  the  Never-ending  Quest, 

And  Minstrel  of  the  Unfulfilled  Desire; 

For  ever  tuning  thy  frail  earthly  lyre 
To  some  unearthly  music,  and  possessed 
With  painful  passionate  longing  to  invest 

The  golden  dream  of  Love's  immortal  fire 

With  mortal  robes  of  beautiful  attire, 
And  fold  perfection  to  thy  throbbing  breast! 

What  wonder,  Shelley,  that  the  restless  wave 
Should  claim  thee  and  the  leaping  flame  consume 

Thy  drifted  form  on  Viareggio's  beach  ? 
These  were  thine  elements, — thy  fitting  grave. 
But  still  thy  soul  rides  on  with  fiery  plume, 

Thy  wild  song  rings  in  ocean's  yearning  speech! 
August,  1906. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  213 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

How  blind  the  toil  that  burrows  like  the  mole, 
In  winding  graveyard  pathways  underground, 
For  Browning's  lineage!    What  if  men  have  found 

Poor  footmen  or  rich  merchants  on  the  roll 

Of  his  forbears?    Did  they  beget  his  soul? 
Nay,  for  he  came  of  ancestry  renowned 
Through  all  the  world, — the  poets  laurel-crowned 

With  wreaths  from  which  the  autumn  takes  no  toll. 

The  blazons  on  his  coat-of-arms  are  these: 
The  flaming  sign  of  Shelley's  heart  on  fire, 
The  golden  globe  of  Shakespeare's  human  stage, 
The  staff  and  scrip  of  Chaucer's  pilgrimage, 
The  rose  of  Dante's  deep,  divine  desire, 
The  tragic  mask  of  wise  Euripides. 
November,  1906. 


2i4  IN  PRAISE   OF  POETS 


TENNYSON 

IN  LUCEM  TRANSITUS,  OCTOBER,  1892 

FROM  the  misty  shores  of  midnight,  touched  with  splendours 

of  the  moon, 
To  the  singing  tides  of  heaven,  and  the  light  more  clear  than 

noon, 
Passed  a  soul  that  grew  to  music  till  it  was  with  God  in  tune. 

Brother  of  the  greatest  poets,  true  to  nature,  true  to  art; 
Lover  of  Immortal  Love,  uplifter  of  the  human  heart; 
Who  shall  cheer  us  with  high  music,  who  shall  sing,  if  thou 
depart? 

Silence  here — for  love  is  silent,  gazing  on  the  lessening  sail; 
Silence  here — for  grief  is  voiceless  when  the  mighty  minstrels 

fail; 
Silence  here — but  far  beyond  us,  many  voices  crying,  Hail! 


"IN  MEMORIAM"  215 


"IN   MEMORIAM" 

THE  record  of  a  faith  sublime, 

And  hope,  through  clouds,  far-off  discerned; 

The  incense  of  a  love  that  burned 
Through  pain  and  doubt  defying  Time: 

The  story  of  a  soul  at  strife 
That  learned  at  last  to  kiss  the  rod, 
And  passed  through  sorrow  up  to  God, 

From  living  to  a  higher  life: 

A  light  that  gleams  across  the  wave 
Of  darkness,  down  the  rolling  years, 
Piercing  the  heavy  mist  of  tears — 

A  rainbow  shining  o'er  a  grave. 


216  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 


VICTOR  HUGO 

1802-1902 

HEART  of  France  for  a  hundred  years, 
Passionate,  sensitive,  proud,  and  strong, 

Quick  to  throb  with  her  hopes  and  fears, 
Fierce  to  flame  with  her  sense  of  wrong! 
You,  who  hailed  with  a  morning  song 

Dream-light  gilding  a  throne  of  old: 

You,  who  turned  when  the  dream  grew  cold, 

Singing  still,  to  the  light  that  shone 

Pure  from  Liberty's  ancient  throne, 
Over  the  human  throng! 

You,  who  dared  in  the  dark  eclipse, — 
When  the  pygmy  heir  of  a  giant  name 
Dimmed  the  face  of  the  land  with  shame, — 

Speak  the  truth  with  indignant  lips, 

Call  him  little  whom  men  called  great, 
Scoff  at  him,  scorn  him,  deny  him, 

Point  to  the  blood  on  his  robe  of  state, 
Fling  back  his  bribes  and  defy  him! 

You,  who  fronted  the  waves  of  fate 
As  you  faced  the  sea  from  your  island  home, 


VICTOR  HUGO  217 

Exiled,  yet  with  a  soul  elate, 

Sending  songs  o'er  the  rolling  foam, 
Bidding  the  heart  of  man  to  wait 
For  the  day  when  all  should  see 

Floods  of  wrath  from  the  frowning  skies 

Fall  on  an  Empire  founded  in  lies, 

And  France  again  be  free! 
You,  who  came  in  the  Terrible  Year 

Swiftly  back  to  your  broken  land, 
Now  to  your  heart  a  thousand  times  more  dear, — 

Prayed  for  her,  sung  to  her,  fought  for  her, 

Patiently,  fervently  wrought  for  her, 
Till  once  again, 

After  the  storm  of  fear  and  pain, 
High  in  the  heavens  the  star  of  France  stood  clear! 

You,  who  knew  that  a  man  must  take 
Good  and  ill  with  a  steadfast  soul — 
Holding  fast,  while  the  billows  roll 

Over  his  head,  to  the  things  that  make 
Life  worth  living  for  great  and  small, — 
Honour  and  pity  and  truth, 
The  heart  and  the  hope  of  youth, 
And  the  good  God  over  all ! 

You,  to  whom  work  was  rest, 
Dauntless  Toiler  of  the  Sea, 


218  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 

Following  ever  the  joyful  quest 
Of  beauty  on  the  shores  of  old  Romance, 

Bard  of  the  poor  of  France, 
And  warrior-priest  of  world-wide  charity! 

You  who  loved  little  children  best 
Of  all  the  poets  that  ever  sung, 
Great  heart,  golden  heart, 
Old,  and  yet  ever  young, 

Minstrel  of  liberty, 
Lover  of  all  free,  winged  things, 

Now  at  last  you  are  free, — 
Your  soul  has  its  wings! 
Heart  of  France  for  a  hundred  years, 

Floating  far  in  the  light  that  never  fails  you, 
Over  the  turmoil  of  mortal  hopes  and  fears 

Victor,  forever  victor,  the  whole  world  hails  you! 
March,  1902. 


LONGFELLOW  219 


LONGFELLOW 

IN  a  great  land,  a  new  land,  a  land  full  of  labour  and  riches 

and  confusion, 
Where  there  were  many  running  to  and  fro,  and  shouting,  and 

striving  together, 
In  the  midst  of  the  hurry  and  the  troubled  noise,  I  heard  the 

voice  of  one  singing. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  O  man,  singing  quietly  amid  all 

this  tumult? 
This  is  the  time  for  new  inventions,  mighty  shoutings,  and 

blowings  of  the  trumpet." 
But  he  answered,  "I  am  only  shepherding  my  sheep  with 


So  he  went  along  his  chosen  way,  keeping  his  little  flock  around 

him; 
And  he  paused  to  listen,  now  and  then,  beside  the  antique 

fountains, 
Where  the  faces  of  forgotten  gods  were  refreshed  with  musically 

falling  waters; 


220  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 

Or  he  sat  for  a  while  at  the  blacksmith's  door,  and  heard  the 

cling-clang  of  the  anvils; 
Or  he  rested  beneath  old  steeples  full  of  bells,  that  showered 

their  chimes  upon  him; 
Or  he  walked  along  the  border  of  the  sea,  drinking  in  the  long 

roar  of  the  billows; 

Or  he  sunned  himself  in  the  pine-scented  shipyard,  amid  the 

tattoo  of  the  mallets; 
Or  he  leaned  on  the  rail  of  the  bridge,  letting  his  thoughts  flow 

with  the  whispering  river; 
He  hearkened  also  to  ancient  tales,  and  made  them  young  again 

with  his  singing. 

Then  a  flaming  arrow  of  death  fell  on  his  flock,  and  pierced 

the  heart  of  his  dearest! 
Silent  the  music  now,  as  the  shepherd  entered  the  mystical 

temple  of  sorrow: 
Long  he  tarried  in  darkness  there:   but  when  he  came  out  he 

was  singing. 

And  I  saw  the  faces  of  men  and  women  and  children  silently 

turning  toward  him; 
The  youth  setting  out  on  the  journey  of  life,  and  the  old  man 

waiting  beside  the  last  mile-stone; 
The  toiler  sweating  beneath  his  load;   and  the  happy  mother 

rocking  her  cradle; 


LONGFELLOW  221 

The  lonely  sailor  on  far-off  seas;  and  the  grey-minded  scholar 

in  his  book-room; 
The  mill-hand  bound  to  a  clacking  machine;  and  the  hunter 

in  the  forest; 
And  the  solitary  soul  hiding  friendless  in  the  wilderness  of  the 

city; 

Many  human  faces,  full  of  care  and  longing,  were  drawn 

irresistibly  toward  him, 
By  the  charm  of  something  known  to  every  heart,  yet  very 

strange  and  lovely, 
And  at  the  sound  of  his  singing  wonderfully  all  their  faces 

were  lightened. 

"  Why  do  you  listen,  O  you  people,  to  this  old  and  world-worn 

music? 
This  is  not  for  you,  in  the  splendour  of  a  new  age,  in  the 

democratic  triumph! 
Listen  to  the  clashing  cymbals,  the  big  drums,  the  brazen 

trumpets  of  your  poets." 

But  the  people  made  no  answer,  following  in  their  hearts  the 
simpler  music: 

For  it  seemed  to  them,  noise-weary,  nothing  could  be  better 
worth  the  hearing 

Than  the  melodies  which  brought  sweet  order  into  life's  con- 
fusion. 


222  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 

So  the  shepherd  sang  his  way  along,  until  he  came  into  a 

mountain: 
And  I  know  not  surely  whether  the  mountain  was  called 

Parnassus, 
But  he  climbed  it  out  of  sight,  and  still  I  heard  the  voice  of  one 

singing. 
January,  1907. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  223 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 
I 

BIRTHDAY  VERSES,   1906 

DEAR  Aldrich,  now  November's  mellow  days 
Have  brought  another  Fesla  round  to  you, 

You  can't  refuse  a  loving-cup  of  praise 
From  friends  the  fleeting  years  have  bound  to  you. 

Here  come  your  Marjorie  Daw,  your  dear  Bad  Boy, 

Prudence,  and  Judith  the  Bethulian, 
And  many  more,  to  wish  you  birthday  joy, 

And  sunny  hours,  and  sky  cerulean! 

Your  children  all,  they  hurry  to  your  den, 

With  wreaths  of  honour  they  have  won  for  you, 

To  merry-make  your  threescore  years  and  ten. 
You,  old?    Why,  life  has  just  begun  for  you! 

There's  many  a  reader  whom  your  silver  songs 
And  crystal  stories  cheer  in  loneliness. 

What  though  the  newer  writers  come  in  throngs  ? 
You're  sure  to  keep  your  charm  of  only-ness. 


224  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 

You  do  your  work  with  careful,  loving  touch, — 
An  artist  to  the  very  core  of  you, — 

You  know  the  magic  spell  of  "not-too-much": 
We  read, — and  wish  that  there  was  more  of  you. 

And  more  there  is:  for  while  we  love  your  books 
Because  their  subtle  skill  is  part  of  you; 

We  love  you  better,  for  our  friendship  looks 
Behind  them  to  the  human  heart  of  you. 

II 
MEMORIAL  SONNET,   1908 

THIS  is  the  house  where  little  Aldrich  read 
The  early  pages  of  Life's  wonder-book 
With  boyish  pleasure:  in  this  ingle-nook 

He  watched  the  drift-wood  fire  of  Fancy  shed 

Bright  coloui  on  the  pictures  blue  and  red: 
Boy-like  he  skipped  the  longer  words,  and  took 
His  happy  way,  with  searching,  dreamful  look 

Among  the  deeper  things  more  simply  said. 

Then,  came  his  turn  to  write:  and  still  the  flame 
Of  Fancy  played  through  all  the  tales  he  told, 

And  still  he  won  the  laurelled  poet's  fame 

With  simple  words  wrought  into  rhymes  of  gold. 

Look,  here's  the  face  to  which  this  house  is  frame,- 
A  man  too  wise  to  let  his  heart  grow  old ! 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  225 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

(READ  AT  His  FUNERAL,  JANUARY  21,  1908.) 

OH,  quick  to  feel  the  lightest  touch 

Of  beauty  or  of  truth, 
Rich  in  the  thoughtfulness  of  age, 

The  hopefulness  of  youth, 
The  courage  of  the  gentle  heart, 

The  wisdom  of  the  pure, 
The  strength  of  finely  tempered  souls 

To  labour  aftd  endure! 

The  blue  of  springtime  in  your  eyes 

Was  never  quenched  by  pain; 
And  winter  brought  your  head  the  crown 

Of  snow  without  a  stain. 
The  poet's  mind,  the  prince's  heart, 

You  kept  until  the  end, 
Nor  ever  faltered  in  your  work, 

Nor  ever  failed  a  friend. 

You  followed,  through  the  quest  of  life, 
The  light  that  shines  above 

The  tumult  and  the  toil  of  men, 
And  shows  us  what  to  love. 


226  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 

Right  loyal  to  the  best  you  knew, 

Reality  or  dream, 
You  ran  the  race,  you  fought  the  fight, 

A  follower  of  the  Gleam. 

We  lay  upon  your  folded  hands 

The  wreath  of  asphodel; 
We  speak  above  your  peaceful  face 

The  tender  word  Farewell! 
For  well  you  fare,  in  God's  good  care, 

Somewhere  within  the  blue, 
And  know,  to-day,  your  dearest  dreams 

Are  true,— and  true, — and  true! 


TO   JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY  227 


TO   JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY 

ON  His  "BOOK  OF  JOYOUS  CHILDREN" 

YOURS  is  a  garden  of  old-fashioned  flowers; 

Joyous  children  delight  to  play  there; 
Weary  men  find  rest  in  its  bowers, 

Watching  the  lingering  light  of  day  there. 

Old-time  tunes  and  young  love-laughter 
Ripple  and  run  among  the  roses; 

Memory's  echoes,  murmuring  after, 
Fill  the  dusk  when  the  long  day  closes. 

Simple  songs  with  a  cadence  olden — 
These  you  learned  in  the  Forest  of  Arden: 

Friendly  flowers  with  hearts  all  golden — 
These  you  borrowed  from  Eden's  garden. 

This  is  the  reason  why  all  men  love  you; 

Truth  to  life  is  the  finest  art: 
Other  poets  may  soar  above  you — 

You  keep  close  to  the  human  heart. 
December,  1903. 


228  IN  PRAISE  OF  POETS 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

IN  MEMORIAM 

SOUL  of  a  soldier  in  a  poet's  frame, 

Heart  of  a  hero  in  a  body  frail; 

Thine  was  the  courage  clear  that  did  not  quail 
Before  the  giant  champions  of  shame 
Who  wrought  dishonour  to  the  city's  name; 

And  thine  the  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail 

Of  Love,  revealed  through  Music's  lucid  veil, 
Filling  thy  life  with  heavenly  song  and  flame. 

Pure  was  the  light  that  lit  thy  glowing  eye, 

And  strong  the  faith  that  held  thy  simple  creed. 
Ah,  poet,  patriot,  friend,  to  serve  our  need 

Thou  lea  vest  two  great  gifts  that  will  not  die: 

Above  the  city's  noise,  thy  lyric  cry, — 
Amid  the  city's  strife,  thy  noble  deed! 

November,  1909. 


MUSIC 


MUSIC 

i 

PRELUDE 

I 

DAUGHTER  of  Psyche,  pledge  of  that  wild  night 
When,  pierced  with  pain  and  bitter-sweet  delight, 
She  knew  her  Love  and  saw  her  Lord  depart, 
Then  breathed  her  wonder  and  her  woe  forlorn 
Into  a  single  cry,  and  thou  wast  born! 
Thou  flower  of  rapture  and  thou  fruit  of  grief; 
Invisible  enchantress  of  the  heart; 
Mistress  of  charms  that  bring  relief 
To  sorrow,  and  to  joy  impart 
A  heavenly  tone  that  keeps  it  undefiled, — 

Thou  art  the  child 
Of  Amor,  and  by  right  divine 

A  throne  of  love  is  thine, 

Thou  flower-folded,  golden-girdled,  star-crowned  Queen, 
Whose  bridal  beauty  mortal  eyes  have  never  seen! 


Thou  art  the  Angel  of  the  pool  that  sleeps, 
While  peace  and  joy  lie  hidden  in  its  deeps, 
Waiting  thy  touch  to  make  the  waters  roll 
231 


232  MUSIC 

In  healing  murmurs  round  the  weary  soul. 

Ah,  when  wilt  thou  draw  near, 
Thou  messenger  of  mercy  robed  in  song  ? 
My  lonely  heart  has  listened  for  thee  long; 

And  now  I  seem  to  hear 
Across  the  crowded  market-place  of  life, 

Thy  measured  foot-fall,  ringing  light  and  clear 
Above  unmeaning  noises  and  unruly  strife. 
In  quiet  cadence,  sweet  and  slow, 
Serenely  pacing  to  and  fro, 
Thy  far-off  steps  are  magical  and  dear, — 
Ah,  turn  this  way,  come  close  and  speak  to  me! 
From  this  dull  bed  of  languor  set  my  spirit  free, 
And  bid  me  rise,  and  let  me  walk  awhile  with  thee. 

II 

INVOCATION 

Where  wilt  thou  lead  me  first? 
In  what  still  region 

Of  thy  domain, 
Whose  provinces  are  legion, 
Wilt  thou  restore  me  to  myself  again, 
And  quench  my  heart's  long  thirst? 
I  pray  thee  lay  thy  golden  girdle  down, 
And  put  away  thy  starry  crown: 


MUSIC  233 

For  one  dear  restful  hour 

Assume  a  state  more  mild. 
Clad  only  in  thy  blossom-broidered  gown 
That  breathes  familiar  scent  of  many  a  flower, 
Take  the  low  path  that  leads  through  pastures  green; 

And  though  thou  art  a  Queen, 
Be  Rosamund  awhile,  and  in  thy  bower, 
By  tranquil  love  and  simple  joy  beguiled, 
Sing  to  my  soul,  as  mother  to  her  child. 

Ill 

PLAY    SONG 

O  lead  me  by  the  hand, 

And  let  my  heart  have  rest, 
And  bring  me  back  to  childhood  land, 
To  find  again  the  long-lost  band 

Of  playmates  blithe  and  blest. 

Some  quaint,  old-fashioned  air, 

That  all  the  children  knew, 
Shall  run  before  us  everywhere, 
Like  a  little  maid  with  flying  hair, 

To  guide  the  merry  crew. 

Along  the  garden  ways 

We  chase  the  light-foot  tune, 


234  MUSIC 

And  in  and  out  the  flowery  maze, 
With  eager  haste  and  fond  delays, 
In  pleasant  paths  of  June. 

>  For  us  the  fields  are  new, 

For  us  the  woods  are  rife 
With  fairy  secrets,  deep  and  true, 
And  heaven  is  but  a  tent  of  blue 

Above  the  game  of  life. 

The  world  is  far  away: 

The  fever  and  the  fret, 
And  all  that  makes  the  heart  grow  grey, 
Is  out  of  sight  and  far  away, 
Dear  Music,  while  I  hear  thee  play 
That  olden,  golden  roundelay, 

"Remember  and  forget!" 

IV 

SLEEP    SONG 

Forget,  forget! 
The  tide  of  life  is  turning; 
The  waves  of  light  ebb  slowly  down  the  west: 
Along  the  edge  of  dark  some  stars  are  burning 
To  guide  thy  spirit  safely  to  an  isle  of  rest. 
A  little  rocking  on  the  tranquil  deep 


MUSIC  235 

Of  song,  to  soothe  thy  yearning, 
A  little  slumber  and  a  little  sleep, 
And  so,  forget,  forget! 

Forget,  forget,— 
The  day  was  long  in  pleasure; 
Its  echoes  die  away  across  the  hill; 
Now  let  thy  heart  beat  time  to  their  slow  measure, 
That  swells,  and  sinks,  and  faints,  and  falls,  till  all  is  still. 
Then,  like  a  weary  child  that  loves  to  keep 

Locked  in  its  arms  some  treasure, 
Thy  soul  in  calm  content  shall  fall  asleep, 
And  so  forget,  forget. 

Forget,  forget,— 
And  if  thou  hast  been  weeping, 
Let  go  the  thoughts  that  bind  thee  to  thy  grief: 
Lie  still,  and  watch  the  singing  angels,  reaping 
The  golden  harvest  of  thy  sorrow,  sheaf  by  sheaf; 

Or  count  thy  joys  like  flocks  of  snow-white  sheep 

That  one  by  one  come  creeping 
Into  the  quiet  fold,  until  thou  sleep, 
And  so  forget,  forget! 

Forget,  forget,— 
Thou  art  a  child  and  knowest 
So  little  of  thy  life!    But  music  tells 


236  MUSIC 

The  secret  of  the  world  through  which  thou  goest 
To  work  with  morning  song,  to  rest  with  evening  bells: 
Life  is  in  tune  with  harmony  so  deep 

That  when  the  notes  are  lowest 
Thou  still  canst  lay  thee  down  in  peace  and  sleep, 
For  God  will  not  forget. 

V 

HUNTING    SONG 

Out  of  the  garden  of  playtime,  out  of  the  bower  of  rest, 
Fain  would  I  follow  at  daytime,  music  that  calls  to  a  quest. 
Hark,  how  the  galloping  measure 
Quickens  the  pulses  of  pleasure; 

Gaily  saluting  the  morn 
With  the  long,  clear  note  of  the  hunting-horn, 
Echoing  up  from  the  valley, 
Over  the  mountain  side, — 
Rally,  you  hunters,  rally, 
Rally,  and  ride! 

Drink  of  the  magical  potion  music  has  mixed  with  her  wine, 
Full  of  the  madness  of  motion,  joyful,  exultant,  divine! 

Leave  all  your  troubles  behind  you, 

Ride  where  they  never  can  find  you, 

Into  the  gladness  of  morn, 
With  the  long,  clear  note  of  the  hunting-horn, 


MUSIC  237 

Swiftly  o'er  hillock  and  hollow, 
Sweeping  along  with  the  wind, — 

Follow,  you  hunters,  follow, 
Follow  and  find! 

What  will  you  reach  with  your  riding  ?    What  is  the  charm  of 

the  chase? 

Just  the  delight  and  the  striding  swing  of  the  jubilant  pace. 
Danger  is  sweet  when  you  front  her, — 
In  at  the  death,  every  hunter! 
Now  on  the  breeze  the  mort  is  borne 
In  the  long,  clear  note  of  the  hunting-horn, 
Winding  merrily,  over  and  over, — 

Come,  come,  come! 

Home  again,  Ranger!  home  again,  Rover! 
Turn  again,  home! 

VI 

DANCE-MUSIC 

i 

Now  let  the  sleep-tune  blend  with  the  play-tune, 
Weaving  the  mystical  spell  of  the  dance; 
Lighten  the  deep  tune,  soften  the  gay  tune, 
Mingle  a  tempo  that  turns  in  a  trance. 
Half  of  it  sighing,  half  of  it  smiling, 


238  MUSIC 

Smoothly  it  swings,  with  a  triplicate  beat; 
Calling,  replying,  yearning,  beguiling, 
Wooing  the  heart  and  bewitching  the  feet. 
Every  drop  of  blood 
Rises  with  the  flood, 
Rocking  on  the  waves  of  the  strain; 
Youth  and  beauty  glide 
Turning  with  the  tide — 
Music  making  one  out  of  twain, 
Bearing  them  away,  and  away,  and  away, 

Like  a  tone  and  its  terce — 
Till  the  chord  dissolves,  and  the  dancers  stay, 
And  reverse. 

Violins  leading,  take  up  the  measure, 
Turn  with  the  tune  again, — clarinets  clear 
Answer  their  pleading, — harps  full  of  pleasure 
Sprinkle  their  silver  like  light  on  the  mere. 

Semiquaver  notes, 

Merry  little  motes, 

Tangled  in  the  haze 

Of  the  lamp's  golden  rays, 

Quiver  everywhere 
In  the  air, 
Like  a  spray, — 
Till  the  fuller  stream  of  the  might  of  the  tune, 


MUSIC  239 

Gliding  like  a  dream  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Bears  them  all  away,  and  away,  and  away, 
Floating  in  the  trance  of  the  dance. 


Then  begins  a  measure  stately, 

Languid,  slow,  serene; 
All  the  dancers  move  sedately, 
Stepping  leisurely  and  straitly, 

With  a  courtly  mien; 
Crossing  hands  and  changing  places, 

Bowing  low  between, 
While  the  minuet  inlaces 
Waving  arms  and  woven  paces, — 

Glittering  damaskeen. 
Where  is  she  whose  form  is  folden 

In  its  royal  sheen  ? 
From  our  longing  eyes  withholden 
By  her  mystic  girdle  golden, 

Beauty  sought  but  never  seen, 
Music  walks  the  maze,  a  queen. 

VII 

THE    SYMPHONY 

Music,  they  do  thee  wrong  who  say  thine  art 

Is  only  to  enchant  the  sense. 
For  every  timid  motion  of  the  heart, 


24o  MUSIC 

And  every  passion  too  intense 
To  bear  the  chain  of  the  imperfect  word, 
And  every  tremulous  longing,  stirred 
By  spirit  winds  that  come  we  know  not  whence 
And  go  we  know  not  where, 
And  every  inarticulate  prayer 
Beating  about  the  depths  of  pain  or  bliss, 

Like  some  bewildered  bird 
That  seeks  its  nest  but  knows  not  where  it  is, 
And  every  dream  that  haunts,  with  dim  delight, 
The  drowsy  hour  between  the  day  and  night, 
The  wakeful  hour  between  the  night  and  day, — 
Imprisoned,  waits  for  thee, 
Impatient,  yearns  for  thee, 
The  queen  who  comes  to  set  the  captive  free! 
Thou  lendest  wings  to  grief  to  fly  away, 
And  wings  to  joy  to  reach  a  heavenly  height; 
And  every  dumb  desire  that  storms  within  the  breast 
Thou  leadest  forth  to  sob  or  sing  itself  to  rest. 

All  these  are  thine,  and  therefore  love  is  thine. 

For  love  is  joy  and  grief, 
And  trembling  doubt,  and  certain-sure  belief, 
And  fear,  and  hope,  and  longing  unexpressed, 
In  pain  most  human,  and  in  rapture  brief 

Almost  divine. 
Love  would  possess,  yet  deepens  when  denied; 


MUSIC  241 

And  love  would  give,  yet  hungers  to  receive; 

Love  like  a  prince  his  triumph  would  achieve; 

And  like  a  miser  in  the  dark  his  joys  would  hide. 

Love  is  most  bold, 

He  leads  his  dreams  like  armed  men  in  line; 
Yet  when  the  siege  is  set,  and  he  must  speak, 

Calling  the  fortress  to  resign 
Its  treasure,  valiant  love  grows  weak, 
And  hardly  dares  his  purpose  to  unfold. 
Less  with  his  faltering  lips  than  with  his  eyes 

He  claims  the  longed-for  prize: 
Love  fain  would  tell  it  all,  yet  leaves  the  best  untold. 
But  thou  shalt  speak  for  love.    Yea,  thou  shalt  teach 
The  mystery  of  measured  tone, 

The  Pentecostal  speech 
That  every  listener  heareth  as  his  own. 
For  on  thy  head  the  cloven  tongues  of  fire, — 
Diminished  chords  that  quiver  with  desire, 
And  major  chords  that  glow  with  perfect  peace, — 
Have  fallen  from  above; 
And  thou  canst  give  release 
In  music  to  the  burdened  heart  of  love. 

Sound  with  the  'cellos'  pleading,  passionate  strain 
The  yearning  theme,  and  let  the  flute  reply 
In  placid  melody,  while  violins  complain, 


242  MUSIC 

And  sob,  and  sigh, 
With  muted  string; 
Then  let  the  oboe  half-reluctant  sing 
Of  bliss  that  trembles  on  the  verge  of  pain, 

While  'cellos  plead  and  plead  again, 
With  throbbing  notes  delayed,  that  would  impart 
To  every  urgent  tone  the  beating  of  the  heart. 

So  runs  the  andante,  making  plain 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  love  without  a  word. 
Then  comes  the  adagio,  with  a  yielding  theme 
Through  which  the  violas  flow  soft  as  in  a  dream, 
While  horns  and  mild  bassoons  are  heard 
In  tender  tune,  that  seems  to  float 

Like  an  enchanted  boat 
Upon  the  downward-gliding  stream, 
Toward  the  allegro's  wide,  bright  sea 
Of  dancing,  glittering,  blending  tone, 
Where  every  instrument  is  sounding  free, 
And  harps  like  wedding-chimes  are  rung,  and  trump- 
ets blown 

Around  the  barque  of  love 
That  rides,  with  smiling  skies  above, 

A  royal  galley,  many-oared, 
Into  the  happy  harbour  of  the  perfect  chord. 


MUSIC  243 

VIII 

IRIS 

Light  to  the  eye  and  Music  to  the  ear, — 
These  are  the  builders  of  the  bridge  that  springs 
From  earth's  dim  shore  of  half-remembered  things 

To  reach  the  heavenly  sphere 
Where  nothing  silent  is  and  nothing  dark. 

So  when  I  see  the  rainbow's  arc 
Spanning  the  showery  sky,  far-off  I  hear 

Music,  and  every  colour  sings: 
And  while  the  symphony  builds  up  its  round 
Full  sweep  of  architectural  harmony 
Above  the  tide  of  Time,  far,  far  away  I  see 
A  bow  of  colour  in  the  bow  of  sound. 

Red  as  the  dawn  the  trumpet  rings; 

Blue  as  the  sky,  the  choir  of  strings 
Darkens  in  double-bass  to  ocean's  hue, 
Rises  in  violins  to  noon-tide's  blue, 

With  threads  of  quivering  light  shot  through  and  through; 
Green  as  the  mantle  that  the  summer  flings 
Around  the  world,  the  pastoral  reeds  in  tune 
Embroider  melodies  of  May  and  June. 
Purer  than  gold, 

Yea,  thrice-refined  gold, 
And  richer  than  the  treasures  of  the  mine, 


244  MUSIC 

Floods  of  the  human  voice  divine 
Along  the  arch  in  choral  song  are  rolled. 
So  bends  the  bow  complete: 
And  radiant  rapture  flows 
Across  the  bridge,  so  full,  so  strong,  so  sweet, 
That  the  uplifted  spirit  hardly  knows 

Whether  the  Music-Light  that  glows 
Within  the  arch  of  tones  and  colours  seven 
Is  sunset-peace  of  earth,  or  sunrise-joy  of  Heaven. 

IX 

SEA    AND    SHORE 

Music,  I  yield  to  thee 

As  swimmer  to  the  sea, 
I  give  my  spirit  to  the  flood  of  song! 

Bear  me  upon  thy  breast 

In  rapture  and  at  rest, 
Bathe  me  in  pure  delight  and  make  me  strong; 

From  strife  and  struggle  bring  release, 
And  draw  the  waves  of  passion  into  tides  of  peace. 

Remembered  songs  most  dear 
In  living  songs  I  hear, 

While  blending  voices  gently  swing  and  sway, 
In  melodies  of  love, 


MUSIC  245 

Whose  mighty  currents  move 
With  singing  near  and  singing  far  away; 

Sweet  in  the  glow  of  morning  light, 
And  sweeter  still  across  the  starlit  gulf  of  night. 

Music,  in  thee  we  float, 

And  lose  the  lonely  note 
Of  self  in  thy  celestial-ordered  strain, 

Until  at  last  we  find 

The  life  to  love  resigned 
In  harmony  of  joy  restored  again; 

And  songs  that  cheered  our  mortal  days 
Break  on  the  shore  of  light  in  endless  hymns  of 

praise. 
December,  1901 — May,  1903. 


246  MUSIC 


MASTER  OF  MUSIC 

(!N  MEMORY  OF  THEODORE  THOMAS,  1905) 

GLORY  of  architect,  glory  of  painter,  and  sculptor,  and  bard, 

Living  forever  in  temple  and  picture  and  statue  and  song, — 
Look  how  the  world  with  the  lights  that  they  lit  is  illumined 

and  starred; 

Brief  was  the  flame  of  their  life,  but  the  lamps  of  their  art 
burn  long! 

Where  is  the  Master  of  Music,  and  how  has  he  vanished  away? 
Where  is  the  work  that  he  wrought  with  his  wonderful  art  in 

the  air? 
Gone, — it  is  gone  like  the  glow  on  the  cloud  at  the  close  of  the 

day! 

The  Master  has  finished  his  work  and  the  glory  of  music  is — 
where? 

Once,  at  the  wave  of  his  wand,  all  the  billows  of  musical  sound 

Followed  his  will,  as  the  sea  was  ruled  by  the  prophet  of  old: 

Now  that  his  hand  is  relaxed,  and  his  rod  has  dropped  to  the 

ground, 

Silent  and  dark  are  the  shores  where  the  marvellous  har- 
monies rolled! 


MASTER  OF  MUSIC  247 

Nay,  but  not  silent  the  hearts  that  were  filled  by  that  life-giving 

sea; 

Deeper  and  purer  forever  the  tides  of  their  being  will  roll, 
Grateful  and  joyful,  O  Master,  because  they  have  listened  to 

thee,— 
The  glory  of  music  endures  in  the  depths  of  the  human  soul. 


248  MUSIC 


TO  A  YOUNG  GIRL  SINGING 

OH,  what  do  you  know  of  the  song,  my  dear, 
And  how  have  you  made  it  your  own  ? 

You  have  caught  the  turn  of  the  melody  clear, 
And  you  give  it  again  with  a  golden  tone, 
Till  the  wonder-word  and  the  wedded  note 
Are  flowing  out  of  your  beautiful  throat 
With  a  liquid  charm  for  every  ear: 
And  they  talk  of  your  art, — but  for  you  alone 
The  song  is  a  thing,  unheard,  unknown; 
You  only  have  learned  it  by  rote. 

But  when  you  have  lived  for  awhile,  my  dear, 
I  think  you  will  learn  it  anew! 

For  a  joy  will  come,  or  a  grief,  or  a  fear, 

That  will  alter  the  look  of  the  world  for  you; 

And  the  lyric  you  learned  as  a  bit  of  art, 

Will  wake  to  life  as  a  wonderful  part 

Of  the  love  you  feel  so  deep  and  true; 

And  the  thrill  of  a  laugh  or  the  throb  of  a  tear, 

Will  come  with  your  song  to  all  who  hear; 

For  then  you  will  know  it  by  heart. 

April,  1911. 


THE  PIPES  O'  PAN  249 


THE  PIPES  O1  PAN 

GREAT  Nature  had  a  million  words, 
In  tongues  of  trees  and  songs  of  birds, 
But  none  to  breathe  the  heart  of  man, 
Till  Music  filled  the  pipes  o'  Pan. 


250  MUSIC 


THE  OLD  FLUTE 

THE  time  will  come  when  I  no  more  can  play 
This  polished  flute:  the  stops  will  not  obey 
My  gnarled  fingers;  and  the  air  it  weaves 
In  modulations,  like  a  vine  with  leaves 
Climbing  around  the  tower  of  song,  will  die 
In  rustling  autumn  rhythms,  confused  and  dry. 
My  shortened  breath  no  more  will  freely  fill 
This  magic  reed  with  melody  at  will; 
My  stiffened  lips  will  try  and  try  in  vain 
To  wake  the  liquid,  leaping,  dancing  strain; 
The  heavy  notes  will  falter,  wheeze,  and  faint 
Or  mock  my  ear  with  shrillness  of  complaint. 

Then  let  me  hang  this  faithful  friend  of  mine 
Upon  the  trunk  of  some  old,  sacred  pine, 
And  sit  beneath  the  green  protecting  boughs 
To  hear  the  viewless  wind,  that  sings  and  soughs 
Above  me,  play  its  wild,  aerial  lute, 
And  draw  a  ghost  of  music  from  my  flute! 

So  will  I  thank  the  gods;  and  most  of  all 
The  Delian  Apollo,  whom  men  call 


THE   OLD  FLUTE  251 

The  mighty  master  of  immortal  sound, — 

Lord  of  the  billows  in  their  chanting  round, 

Lord  of  the  winds  that  fill  the  wood  with  sighs, 

Lord  of  the  echoes  and  their  sweet  replies, 

Lord  of  the  little  people  of  the  air 

That  sprinkle  drops  of  music  everywhere, 

Lord  of  the  sea  of  melody  that  laves 

The  universe  with  never  silent  waves,— 

Him  will  I  thank  that  this  brief  breath  of  mine 

Has  caught  one  cadence  of  the  song  divine; 

And  these  frail  fingers  learned  to  rise  and  fall 

In  time  with  that  great  tune  which  throbs  thro'  all; 

And  these  poor  lips  have  lent  a  lilt  of  joy 

To  songless  men  whom  weary  tasks  employ! 

My  life  has  had  its  music,  and  my  heart 

In  harmony  has  borne  a  little  part, 

Before  I  come  with  quiet,  grateful  breast 

To  Death's  dim  hall  of  silence  and  of  rest. 

Freely  rendered  from  the  French  of  Auguste  Angellier. 


LYRICS   OF 
LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


A  MILE  WITH  ME 

0  WHO  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 
Along  life's  merry  way? 

A  comrade  blithe  and  full  of  glee, 
Who  dares  to  laugh  out  loud  and  free, 
And  let  his  frolic  fancy  play, 
Like  a  happy  child,  through  the  flowers  gay 
That  fill  the  field  and  fringe  the  way 
Where  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 

And  who  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 

Along  life's  weary  way? 
A  friend  whose  heart  has  eyes  to  see 
The  stars  shine  out  o'er  the  darkening  lea, 
And  the  quiet  rest  at  the  end  o'  the  day, — 
A  friend  who  knows,  and  dares  to  say, 
The  brave,  sweet  words  that  cheer  the  way 

Where  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 

With  such  a  comrade,  such  a  friend, 

1  fain  would  walk  till  journeys  end, 
Through  summer  sunshine,  winter  rain, 
And  then? — Farewell,  we  shall  meet  again! 

255 


256        LYRICS  OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


THE  THREE  BEST  THINGS 


WORK 

LET  me  but  do  my  work  from  day  to  day, 
In  field  or  forest,  at  the  desk  or  loom, 
In  roaring  market-place  or  tranquil  room; 

Let  me  but  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say, 

When  vagrant  wishes  beckon  me  astray, 

"This  is  my  work;  my  blessing,  not  my  doom; 
"Of  all  who  live,  I  am  the  one  by  whom 

"This  work  can  best  be  done  in  the  right  way." 

Then  shall  I  see  it  not  too  great,  nor  small, 
To  suit  my  spirit  and  to  prove  my  powers; 
Then  shall  I  cheerful  greet  the  labouring  hours, 
And  cheerful  turn,  when  the  long  shadows  fall 
At  eventide,  to  play  and  love  and  rest, 
Because  I  know  for  me  my  work  is  best. 


THE  THREE  BEST  THINGS  257 

n 

LOVE 

Let  me  but  love  my  love  without  disguise, 
Nor  wear  a  mask  of  fashion  old  or  new, 
Nor  wait  to  speak  till  I  can  hear  a  clue, 

Nor  play  a  part  to  shine  in  others'  eyes, 

Nor  bow  my  knees  to  what  my  heart  denies; 
But  what  I  am,  to  that  let  me  be  true, 
And  let  me  worship  where  my  love  is  due, 

And  so  through  love  and  worship  let  me  rise. 

For  love  is  but  the  heart's  immortal  thirst 
To  be  completely  known  and  all  forgiven, 
Even  as  sinful  souls  that  enter  Heaven: 

So  take  me,  dear,  and  understand  my  worst, 

And  freely  pardon  it,  because  confessed, 

And  let  me  find  in  loving  thee,  my  best. 


258       LYRICS  OF   LABOUR  AND  ROMANCE 

III 
UFE 

Let  me  but  live  my  life  from  year  to  year, 
With  forward  face  and  unreluctant  soul; 
Not  hurrying  to,  nor  turning  from,  the  goal; 

Not  mourning  for  the  things  that  disappear 

In  the  dim  past,  nor  holding  back  in  fear 
From  what  the  future  veils;  but  with  a  whole 
And  happy  heart,  that  pays  its  toll 

To  Youth  and  Age,  and  travels  on  with  cheer. 

So  let  the  way  wind  up  the  hill  or  down, 
O'er  rough  or  smooth,  the  journey  will  be  joy: 
Still  seeking  what  I  sought  when  but  a  boy, 
New  friendship,  high  adventure,  and  a  crown, 
My  heart  will  keep  the  courage  of  the  quest, 
And  hope  the  road's  last  turn  will  be  the  best. 


RELIANCE  259 


RELIANCE 

NOT  to  the  swift,  the  race: 
Not  to  the  strong,  the  fight: 
Not  to  the  righteous,  perfect  grace: 
Not  to  the  wise,  the  light. 

But  often  faltering  feet 
Come  surest  to  the  goal; 
And  they  who  walk  in  darkness  meet 
The  sunrise  of  the  soul. 

A  thousand  times  by  night 
The  Syrian  hosts  have  died; 
A  thousand  times  the  vanquished  right 
Hath  risen,  glorified. 

The  truth  the  wise  men  sought 
Was  spoken  by  a  child; 
The  alabaster  box  was  brought 
In  trembling  hands  defiled. 

Not  from  my  torch,  the  gleam, 
But  from  the  stars  above: 
Not  from  my  heart,  life's  crystal  stream, 
But  from  the  depths  of  Love. 


26o       LYRICS  OF  LABOUR  AND  ROMANCE 


DOORS  OF  DARING 

THE  mountains  that  inclose  the  vale 
With  walls  of  granite,  steep  and  high, 

Invite  the  fearless  foot  to  scale 
Their  stairway  toward  the  sky. 

The  restless,  deep,  dividing  sea 

That  flows  and  foams  from  shore  to  shore, 
Calls  to  its  sunburned  chivalry, 

"Push  out,  set  sail,  explore!" 

The  bars  of  life  at  which  we  fret, 
That  seem  to  prison  and  control, 

Are  but  the  doors  of  daring,  set 
Ajar  before  the  soul. 

Say  not,  "Too  poor,"  but  freely  give; 

Sigh  not,  "Too  weak,"  but  boldly  try; 
You  never  can  begin  to  live 

Until  you  dare  to  die. 


A  HOME  SONG  261 


A  HOME  SONG 

I  READ  within  a  poet's  book 
A  word  that  starred  the  page: 

"Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage!" 

Yes,  that  is  true,  and  something  more: 
You'll  find,  where'er  you  roam, 

That  marble  floors  and  gilded  walls 
Can  never  make  a  home. 

But  every  house  where  Love  abides, 

And  Friendship  is  a  guest, 
Is  surely  home,  and  home-sweet-home: 

For  there  the  heart  can  rest. 


262       LYRICS  OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN 

WHEN  to  the  garden  of  untroubled  thought 
I  came  of  late,  and  saw  the  open  door, 
And  wished  again  to  enter,  and  explore 

The  sweet,  wild  ways  with  stainless  bloom  inwrought, 

And  bowers  of  innocence  with  beauty  fraught, 
It  seemed  some  purer  voice  must  speak  before 
I  dared  to  tread  that  garden  loved  of  yore, 

That  Eden  lost  unknown  and  found  unsought. 

Then  just  within  the  gate  I  saw  a  child, — 
A  stranger-child,  yet  to  my  heart  most  dear; 

He  held  his  hands  to  me,  and  softly  smiled 
With  eyes  that  knew  no  shade  of  sin  or  fear: 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  "and  play  awhile  with  me; 

"I  am  the  little  child  you  used  to  be." 


LOVE'S  REASON  263 


LOVE'S  REASON 

FOR  that  thy  face  is  fair  I  love  thee  not; 
Nor  yet  because  thy  brown  benignant  eyes 
Have  sudden  gleams  of  gladness  and  surprise, 

Like  woodland  brooks  that  cross  a  sunlit  spot: 

Nor  for  thy  body,  born  without  a  blot, 
And  loveliest  when  it  shines  with  no  disguise 
Pure  as  the  star  of  Eve  in  Paradise, — 

For  all  these  outward  things  I  love  thee  not: 

But  for  a  something  in  thy  form  and  face, 
Thy  looks  and  ways,  of  primal  harmony; 

A  certain  soothing  charm,  a  vjtal  grace 
That  breathes  of  the  eternal  womanly, 

And  makes  me  feel  the  warmth  of  Nature's  breast, 

When  in  her  arms,  and  thine,  I  sink  to  rest. 


264       LYRICS  OF   LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


PORTRAIT  AND  REALITY 

IF  on  the  closed  curtain  of  my  sight 
My  fancy  paints  thy  portrait  far  away, 
I  see  thee  still  the  same,  by  night  or  day; 

Crossing  the  crowded  street,  or  moving  bright 

'Mid  festal  throngs,  or  reading  by  the  light 
Of  shaded  lamp  some  friendly  poet's  lay, 
Or  shepherding  the  children  at  their  play, — 

The  same  sweet  self,  and  my  unchanged  delight. 

But  when  I  see  thee  near,  I  recognize 
In  every  dear  familiar  way  some  strange 

Perfection,  and  behold  in  April  guise 
The  magic  of  thy  beauty  that  doth  range 

Through  many  moods  with  infinite  surprise, — 
Never  the  same,  and  sweeter  with  each  change. 


THE  ECHO   IN  THE  HEART  265 


THE   ECHO  IN  THE  HEART 

IT'S  little  I  can  tell 

About  the  birds  in  books; 
And  yet  I  know  them  well, 

By  their  music  and  their  looks: 

When  May  comes  down  the  lane, 
Her  airy  lovers  throng 
To  welcome  her  with  song, 
And  follow  in  her  train: 
Each  minstrel  weaves  his  part 
In  that  wild-flowery  strain, 
And  I  know  them  all  again 
By  their  echo  in  my  heart. 

It's  little  that  I  care 

About  my  darling's  place 
In  books  of  beauty  rare, 
Or  heraldries  of  race: 

For  when  she  steps  in  view, 
It  matters  not  to  me 
What  her  sweet  type  may  be, 
Of  woman,  old  or  new. 


266       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 

I  can't  explain  the  art, 
But  I  know  her  for  my  own, 
Because  her  lightest  tone 
Wakes  an  echo  in  my  heart. 


"UNDINE" 

'TWAS  far  away  and  long  ago, 

When  I  was  but  a  dreaming  boy, 
This  fairy  tale  of  love  and  woe 

Entranced  my  heart  with  tearful  joy; 
And  while  with  white  Undine  I  wept 

Your  spirit, — ah,  how  strange  it  seems,- 
Was  cradled  in  some  star,  and  slept, 

Unconscious  of  her  coming  dreams. 


RENCONTRE"  267 


"RENCONTRE" 

OH,  was  I  born  too  soon,  my  dear,  or  were  you  born  too  late, 
That  I  am  going  out  the  door  while  you  come  in  the  gate? 
For  you  the  garden  blooms  galore,  the  castle  is  en  fete; 
You  are  the  coming  guest,  my  dear, — for  me  the  horses  wait. 

I  know  the  mansion  well,  my  dear,  its  rooms  so  rich  and  wide; 
If  you  had  only  come  before  I  might  have  been  your  guide, 
And  hand  in  hand  with  you  explore  the  treasures  that  they  hide; 
But  you  have  come  to  stay,  my  dear,  and  I  prepare  to  ride. 

Then  walk  with  me  an  hour,  my  dear,  and  pluck  the  reddest 

rose 
Amid  the  white  and  crimson  store  with  which  your  garden 

glows,— 

A  single  rose, — I  ask  no  more  of  what  your  love  bestows; 
It  is  enough  to  give,  my  dear, — a  flower  to  him  who  goes. 

The  House  of  Life  is  yours,  my  dear,  for  many  and  many  a  day, 
But  I  must  ride  the  lonely  shore,  the  Road  to  Far  Away: 
So  bring  the  stirrup-cup  and  pour  a  brimming  draught,  I  pray, 
And  when  you  take  the  road,  my  dear,  I'll  meet  you  on  the  way. 


268       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


LOVE  IN  A  LOOK 

LET  me  but  feel  thy  look's  embrace, 

Transparent,  pure,  and  warm, 
And  I'll  not  ask  to  touch  thy  face, 

Or  fold  thee  in  mine  arm. 
For  in  thine  eyes  a  girl  doth  rise, 

Arrayed  in  candid  bliss, 
And  draws  me  to  her  with  a  charm 

More  close  than  any  kiss. 

A  loving-cup  of  golden  wine, 

Songs  of  a  silver  brook, 
And  fragrant  breaths  of  eglantine, 

Are  mingled  in  thy  look. 
More  fair  they  are  than  any  star, 

Thy  topaz  eyes  divine — 
And  deep  within  their  trysting-nook 

Thy  spirit  blends  with  mine. 


MY  APRIL   LADY  269 


MY  APRIL  LADY 

WHEN  down  the  stair  at  morning 

The  sunbeams  round  her  float, 
Sweet  rivulets  of  laughter 

Are  rippling  in  her  throat; 
The  gladness  of  her  greeting 

Is  gold  without  alloy; 
And  in  the  morning  sunlight 

I  think  her  name  is  Joy. 

When  in  the  evening  twilight 

The  quiet  book-room  lies, 
We  read  the  sad  old  ballads, 

While  from  her  hidden  eyes 
The  tears  are  falling,  falling, 

That  give  her  heart  relief; 
And  in  the  evening  twilight, 

I  think  her  name  is  Grief. 

My  little  April  lady, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers 
She  weaves  the  old  spring  magic, 

And  breaks  my  heart  in  flowers! 


270       LYRICS  OF  LABOUR  AND  ROMANCE 

But  when  her  itfoods  are  ended, 
She  nestles  like  a  dove; 

Then,  by  the  pain  and  rapture, 
I  know  her  name  is  Love. 


A  LOVER'S  ENVY  271 


A  LOVER'S   ENVY 

I  ENVY  every  flower  that  blows 
Along  the  meadow  where  she  goes, 
And  every  bird  that  sings  to  her, 
And  every  breeze  that  brings  to  her 
The  fragrance  of  the  rose. 

I  envy  every  poet's  rhyme 
That  moves  her  heart  at  eventime, 
And  every  tree  that  wears  for  her 
Its  brightest  bloom,  and  bears  for  her 
The  fruitage  of  its  prime. 

I  envy  every  Southern  night 

That  paves  her  path  with  moonbeams  white, 
And  silvers  all  the  leaves  for  her, 
And  in  their  shadow  weaves  for  her 
A  dream  of  dear  delight. 

I  envy  none  whose  love  requires 
Of  her  a  gift,  a  task  that  tires: 

I  only  long  to  live  to  her, 

I  only  ask  to  give  to  her, 
All  that  her  heart  desires. 


272       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


FIRE-FLY  CITY 

LIKE  a  long  arrow  through  the  dark  the  train  is  darting, 
Bearing  me  far  away,  after  a  perfect  day  of  love's  delight: 

Wakeful  with  all  the  sad-sweet  memories  of  parting, 

I  lift  the  narrow  window-shade  and  look  out  on  the  night. 

Lonely  the  land  unknown,  and  like  a  river  flowing, 

Forest  and  field  and  hill  are  gliding  backward  still  athwart 
my  dream; 

Till  in  that  country  strange,  and  ever  stranger  growing, 
A  magic  city  full  of  lights  begins  to  glow  and  gleam. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  dim  the  lamps  are  lit  in  millions; 
Long  avenues  unfold  clear-shining  lines  of  gold  across  the 

green; 
Clusters  and  rings  of  light,  and  luminous  pavilions, — 

Oh,  who  will  tell  the  city's  name,  and  what  these  wonders 
mean? 

Why  do  they  beckon  me,  and  what  have  they  to  show  me? 

Crowds  in  the  blazing  street,  mirth  where  the  feasters  meet, 

kisses  and  wine: 
Many  to  laugh  with  me,  but  never  one  to  know  me: 

A  cityful  of  stranger-hearts  and  none  to  beat  with  mine! 


THE  GENTLE  TRAVELLER  273 

Look  how  the  glittering  lines  are  wavering  and  lifting, — 
Softly  the  breeze  of  night  scatters  the  vision  bright:  and, 
passing  fair, 

Over  the  meadow-grass  and  through  the  forest  drifting, 
The  Fire-Fly  City  of  the  Dark  is  lost  in  empty  air! 


THE   GENTLE  TRAVELLER 

"THROUGH  many  a  land  your  journey  ran, 

And  showed  the  best  the  world  can  boast: 
Now  tell  me,  traveller,  if  you  can, 
The  place  that  pleased  you  most." 

She  laid  her  hands  upon  my  breast, 
And  murmured  gently  in  my  ear, 
"The  place  I  loved  and  liked  the  best 
Was  in  your  arms,  my  dear!" 


274       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


NEPENTHE 

YES,  it  was  like  you  to  forget, 

And  cancel  in  the  welcome  of  your  smile 

My  deep  arrears  of  debt, 

And  with  the  putting  forth  of  both  your  hands 

To  sweep  away  the  bars  my  folly  set 

Between  us — bitter  thoughts,  and  harsh  demands, 

And  reckless  deeds  that  seemed  untrue 

To  love,  when  all  the  while 

My  heart  was  aching  through  and  through 

For  you,  sweet  heart,  and  only  you. 

Yet,  as  I  turned  to  come  to  you  again, 

I  thought  there  must  be  many  a  mile 

Of  sorrowful  reproach  to  cross, 

And  many  an  hour  of  mutual  pain 

To  bear,  until  I  could  make  plain 

That  all  my  pride  was  but  the  fear  of  loss, 

And  all  my  doubt  the  shadow  of  despair 

To  win  a  heart  so  innocent  and  fair; 

And  even  that  which  looked  most  ill 

Was  but  the  fever-fret  and  effort  vain 

To  dull  the  thirst  which  you  alone  could  still. 

But  as  I  turned,  the  desert  miles  were  crossed, 
And  when  I  came,  the  weary  hours  were  sped ! 


NEPENTHE  275 

For  there  you  stood  beside  the  open  door, 

Glad,  gracious,  smiling  as  before, 

And  with  bright  eyes  and  tender  hands  outspread 

Restored  me  to  the  Eden  I  had  lost. 

Never  a  word  of  cold  reproof, 

No  sharp  reproach,  no  glances  that  accuse 

The  culprit  whom  they  hold  aloof, — 

Ah,  'tis  not  thus  that  other  women  use 

The  empire  they  have  won ! 

For  there  is  none  like  you,  beloved, — none 

Secure  enough  to  do  what  you  have  done. 

Where  did  you  learn  this  heavenly  art, — 

You  sweetest  and  most  wise  of  all  that  live, — 

With  silent  welcome  to  impart 

Assurance  of  the  royal  heart 

That  never  questions  where  it  would  forgive? 

None  but  a  queen  could  pardon  me  like  this! 

My  sovereign  lady,  let  me  lay 

Within  each  rosy  palm  a  loyal  kiss 

Of  penitence,  then  close  the  fingers  up, 

Thus — thus!    Now  give  the  cup 

Of  full  nepenthe  in  your  crimson  mouth, 

And  come — the  garden  blooms  with  bliss, 

The  wind  is  in  the  south, 

The  rose  of  love  with  dew  is  wet — 

Dear,  it  was  like  you  to  forget! 


276       LYRICS  OF  LABOUR  AND  ROMANCE 


DAY  AND  NIGHT 

How  long  is  the  night,  brother, 

And  how  long  is  the  day? 
Oh,  the  day's  too  short  for  a  happy  task, 

And  the  day's  too  short  for  play; 
And  the  night's  too  short  for  the  bliss  of  love,— 

For  look,  how  the  edge  of  the  sky  grows  gray, 
While  the  stars  die  out  in  the  blue  above, 

And  the  wan  moon  fades  away. 

How  short  is  the  day,  brother, 

And  how  short  is  the  night? 
Oh,  the  day's  too  long  for  a  heavy  task, 

And  long,  long,  long  is  the  night, 
When  the  wakeful  hours  are  filled  with  pain, 

And  the  sad  heart  waits  for  the  thing  it  fears, 
And  sighs  for  the  dawn  to  come  again, — 

The  night  is  a  thousand  years! 

How  long  is  a  life,  dear  God, 

And  how  fast  does  it  flow? 
The  measure  of  life  is  a  flame  in  the  soul : 

It  is  neither  swift  nor  slow. 


HESPER  277 

But  the  vision  of  time  is  the  shadow  cast 
By  the  fleeting  world  on  the  body's  wall; 

When  it  fades  there  is  neither  future  nor  past, 
But  love  is  all  in  all. 


HESPER 

HER  eyes  are  like  the  evening  air, 
Her  voice  is  like  a  rose, 

Her  lips  are  like  a  lovely  song, 
That  ripples  as  it  flows, 

And  she  herself  is  sweeter  than 
The  sweetest  thing  she  knows. 

A  slender,  haunting,  twilight  form 
Of  wonder  and  surprise, 

She  seemed  a  fairy  or  a  child, 
Till,  deep  within  her  eyes, 

I  saw  the  homeward-leading  star 
Of  womanhood  arise. 


278       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


ARRIVAL 

ACROSS  a  thousand  miles  of  sea,  a  hundred  leagues  of  land, 

Along  a  path  I  had  not  traced  and  could  not  understand, 

I  travelled  fast  and  far  for  this, — to  take  thee  by  the  hand. 

A  pilgrim  knowing  not  the  shrine  where  he  would  bend  his 

knee, 

A  mariner  without  a  dream  of  what  his  port  would  be, 
So  fared  I  with  a  seeking  heart  until  I  came  to  thee. 

O  cooler  than  a  grove  of  palm  in  some  heat-weary  place, 

O  fairer  than  an  isle  of  calm  after  the  wild  sea  race, 

The  quiet  room  adorned  with  flowers  where  first  I  saw  thy  face! 

Then  furl  the  sail,  let  fall  the  oar,  forget  the  paths  of  foam! 
The  fate  that  made  me  wander  far  at  last  has  brought  me  home 
To  thee,  dear  haven  of  my  heart,  and  I  no  more  will  roam. 


DEPARTURE  279 


DEPARTURE 

OH,  why  are  you  shining  so  bright,  big  Sun, 

And  why  is  the  garden  so  gay  ? 
Do  you  know  that  my  days  of  delight  are  done, 

Do  you  know  I  am  going  away  ? 
If  you  covered  your  face  with  a  cloud,  I'd  dream 

You  were  sorry  for  me  in  my  pain, 
And  the  heavily  drooping  flowers  would  seem 

To  be  weeping  with  me  in  the  rain. 

But  why  is  your  head  so  low,  sweet  heart, 

And  why  are  your  eyes  overcast? 
Are  you  crying  because  you  know  we  must  part, 

Do  you  think  this  embrace  is  our  last? 
Then  kiss  me  again,  and  again,  and  again, 

Look  up  as  you  bid  me  good-bye! 
For  your  face  is  too  dear  for  the  stain  of  a  tear, 

And  your  smile  is  the  sun  in  my  sky. 


28o       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


THE  BLACK   BIRDS 

I 

ONCE,  only  once,  I  saw  it  clear, — 

That  Eden  every  human  heart  has  dreamed 

A  hundred  times,  but  always  far  away! 

Ah,  well  do  I  remember  how  it  seemed, 

Through  the  still  atmosphere 

Of  that  enchanted  day, 

To  lie  wide  open  to  my  weary  feet: 

A  little  land  of  love  and  joy  and  rest, 

With  meadows  of  soft  green, 

Rosy  with  cyclamen,  and  sweet 

With  delicate  breath  of  violets  unseen, — 

And,  tranquil  'mid  the  bloom 

As  if  it  waited  for  a  coming  guest, 

A  little  house  of  peace  and  joy  and  love 

Was  nested  like  a  snow-white  dove. 


II 

From  the  rough  mountain  where  I  stood, 

Homesick  for  happiness, 

Only  a  narrow  valley  and  a  darkling  wood 


THE  BLACK   BIRDS  281 

To  cross,  and  then  the  long  distress 

Of  solitude  would  be  forever  past, — 

I  should  be  home  at  last. 

But  not  too  soon!  oh,  let  me  linger  here 

And  feed  my  eyes,  hungry  with  sorrow, 

On  all  this  loveliness,  so  near, 

And  mine  to-morrow! 


Ill 

Then,  from  the  wood,  across  the  silvery  blue, 

A  dark  bird  flew, 

Silent,  with  sable  wings. 

Close  in  his  wake  another  came, — 

Fragments  of  midnight  floating  through 

The  sunset  flame, — 

Another  and  another,  weaving  rings 

Of  blackness  on  the  primrose  sky, — 

Another,  and  another,  look,  a  score, 

A  hundred,  yes,  a  thousand  rising  heavily 

From  that  accursed,  dumb,  and  ancient  wood, 

They  boiled  into  the  lucid  air 

Like  smoke  from  some  deep  caldron  of  despair! 

And  more,  and  more,  and  ever  more, 

The  numberless,  ill-omened  brood 

Flapping  their  ragged  plumes, 


282       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 

Possessed  the  landscape  and  the  evening  light 

With  menaces  and  glooms. 

Oh,  dark,  dark,  dark  they  hovered  o'er  the  place 

Where  once  I  saw  the  little  house  so  white 

Amid  the  flowers,  covering  every  trace 

Of  beauty  from  my  troubled  sight, — 

And  suddenly  it  was  night! 


IV 

At  break  of  day  I  crossed  the  wooded  vale; 

And  while  the  morning  made 

A  trembling  light  among  the  tree-tops  pale, 

I  saw  the  sable  birds  on  every  limb, 

Clinging  together  closely  in  the  shade, 

And  croaking  placidly  their  surly  hymn. 

But,  oh,  the  little  land  of  peace  and  love 

That  those  night-loving  wings  had  poised  above,- 

Where  was  it  gone  ? 

Lost,  lost,  forevermore! 

Only  a  cottage,  dull  and  gray, 

In  the  cold  light  of  dawn, 

With  iron  bars  across  the  door: 

Only  a  garden  where  the  drooping  head 

Of  one  sad  rose,  foreboding  its  decay, 

Hung  o'er  a  barren  bed: 


THE  BLACK  BIRDS  283 

Only  a  desolate  field  that  lay 

Untilled  beneath  the  desolate  day, — 

Where  Eden  seemed  to  bloom  I  found  but  these! 

So,  wondering,  I  passed  along  my  way, 

With  anger  in  my  heart,  too  deep  for  words, 

Against  that  grove  of  evil-sheltering  trees, 

And  the  black  magic  of  the  croaking  birds. 


284       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


WITHOUT  DISGUISE 

IF  I  have  erred  in  showing  all  my  heart, 

And  lost  your  favour  by  a  lack  of  pride; 

If  standing  like  a  beggar  at  your  side 
With  naked  feet,  I  have  forgot  the  art 
Of  those  who  bargain  well  in  passion's  mart, 

And  win  the  thing  they  want  by  what  they  hide; 

Be  mine  the  fault  as  mine  the  hope  denied, 
Be  mine  the  lover's  and  the  loser's  part. 

The  sin,  if  sin  it  was,  I  do  repent, 
And  take  the  penance  on  myself  alone; 

Yet  after  I  have  borne  the  punishment, 
I  shall  not  fear  to  stand  before  the  throne 

Of  Love  with  open  heart,  and  make  this  plea: 

"At  least  I  have  not  lied  to  her  nor  Thee!" 


AN  HOUR  285 


AN  HOUR 

You  only  promised  me  a  single  hour: 
But  while  it  passed  I  journeyed  through  a  year 
Of  life:  the  joy  of  finding  you, — the  fear 

Of  losing  you  again, — the  sense  of  power 

To  make  you  all  my  own, — the  sudden  shower 
Of  tears  that  came  because  you  were  more  dear 
Than  words  could  ever  tell, — and  then,  the  clear 

Enraptured  bloom  of  love's  soft  crimson  flower. 

An  hour, — a  year, — I  felt  your  bosom  rise 
And  fall  with  mystic  tides,  and  saw  the  gleam 

Of  undiscovered  stars  within  yours  eyes, — 
A  year, — an  hour?     I  knew  not,  for  the  stream 

Of  love  had  carried  me  to  Paradise, 
And  all  the  forms  of  Time  were  like  a  dream. 


286       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


"RAPPELLE-TOI" 

REMEMBER,  when  the  timid  light 

Through  the  enchanted  hall  of  dawn  is  gleaming; 
Remember,  when  the  pensive  night 
Beneath  her  silver-sprinkled  veil  walks  dreaming; 
When  pleasure  calls  thee  and  thy  heart  beats  high, 
When  tender  joys  through  evening  shades  draw  nigh, 
Hark,  from  the  woodland  deeps 
A  gentle  whisper  creeps, 
Remember! 

Remember,  when  the  hand  of  fate 

My  life  from  thine  forevermore  has  parted; 
When  sorrow,  exile,  and  the  weight 

Of  lonely  years  have  made  me  heavy-hearted; 
Think  of  my  loyal  love,  my  last  adieu ; 
Absence  and  time  are  naught,  if  we  are  true; 
Long  as  my  heart  shall  beat, 
To  thine  it  will  repeat, 
Remember! 

Remember,  when  the  cool,  dark  tomb 
Receives  my  heart  into  its  quiet  keeping, 


"RAPPELLE-TOI"  287 

And  some  sweet  flower  begins  to  bloom 

Above  the  grassy  mound  where  I  am  sleeping; 
Ah  then,  my  face  thou  nevermore  shalt  see, 
But  still  my  soul  will  linger  close  to  thee, 
And  in  the  holy  place  of  night, 
The  litany  of  love  recite, — 

Remember! 
From  the  French  of  Alfred  de  Musset. 


288       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


EIGHT  ECHOES  FROM  THE  POEMS  OF 
AUGUSTE  ANGELLIER 

I 

THE    IVORY    CRADLE 

THE  cradle  I  have  made  for  thee 

Is  carved  of  orient  ivory, 

And  curtained  round  with  wavy  silk 

More  white  than  hawthorn-bloom  or  milk. 

A  twig  of  box,  a  lilac  spray, 
Will  drive  the  goblin-horde  away; 
And  charm  thy  childlike  heart  to  keep 
Her  happy  dream  and  virgin  sleep. 

Within  that  pure  and  fragrant  nest, 
I'll  rock  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest, 
With  tender  songs  we  need  not  fear 
To  have  a  passing  angel  hear. 

Ah,  long  and  long  I  fain  would  hold 
The  snowy  curtain's  guardian  fold 
Around  thy  crystal  visions,  born 
In  clearness  of  the  early  morn. 


DREAMS  289 

But  look,  the  sun  is  glowing  red 
With  triumph  in  his  golden  bed; 
Aurora's  virgin  whiteness  dies 
In  crimson  glory  of  the  skies. 

The  rapid  flame  will  burn  its  way 
Through  these  white  curtains,  too,  one  day; 
The  ivory  cradle  will  be  left 
Undone,  and  broken,  and  bereft. 

II 

DREAMS 

Often  I  dream  your  big  blue  eyes, 

Though  loth  their  meaning  to  confess, 
Regard  me  with  a  clear  surprise 
Of  dawning  tenderness. 

Often  I  dream  you  gladly  hear 

The  words  I  hardly  dare  to  breathe, — 
The  words  that  falter  in  their  fear 
To  tell  what  throbs  beneath. 

Often  I  dream  your  hand  in  mine 

Falls  like  a  flower  at  eventide, 

And  down  the  path  we  leave  a  line 

Of  footsteps  side  by  side. 


290       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 

But  ah,  in  all  my  dreams  of  bliss, 

In  passion's  hunger,  fever's  drouth, 
I  never  dare  to  dream  of  this: 
My  lips  upon  your  mouth. 

And  so  I  dream  your  big  blue  eyes, 
That  look  on  me  with  tenderness, 
Grow  wide,  and  deep,  and  sad,  and  wise, 
And  dim  with  dear  distress. 


Ill 

THE    GARLAND    OF    SLEEP 

A  wreath  of  poppy  flowers, 
With  leaves  of  lotus  blended, 

Is  carved  on  Life's  facade  of  hours, 
From  night  to  night  suspended. 

Along  the  columned  wall, 

From  birth's  low  portal  starting, 

It  flows,  with  even  rise  and  fall, 
To  death's  dark  door  of  parting. 

How  short  each  measured  arc, 
How  brief  the  columns'  number! 

The  wreath  begins  and  ends  in  dark, 
And  leads  from  sleep  to  slumber. 


TRANQUIL   HABIT  291 

The  marble  garland  seems, 

With  braided  leaf  and  bloom, 
To  deck  the  palace  of  our  dreams 

As  if  it  were  a  tomb. 


IV 

TRANQUIL    HABIT 

Dear  tranquil  Habit,  with  her  silent  hands, 
Doth  heal  our  deepest  wounds  from  day  to  day 
With  cooling,  soothing  oil,  and  firmly  lay 

Around  the  broken  heart  her  gentle  bands. 

Her  nursing  is  as  calm  as  Nature's  care; 

She  doth  not  weep  with  us;  yet  none  the  less 
Her  quiet  fingers  weave  forgetfulness, — 

We  fall  asleep  in  peace  when  she  is  there. 

Upon  the  mirror  of  the  mind  her  breath 
Is  like  a  cloud,  to  hide  the  fading  trace 
Of  that  dear  smile,  of  that  remembered  face, 

Whose  presence  were  the  joy  and  pang  of  death. 

And  he  who  clings  to  sorrow  overmuch, 

Weeping  for  withered  grief,  has  cause  to  bless, 
More  than  all  cries  of  pity  and  distress, — 

Dear  tranquil  Habit,  thy  consoling  touch ! 


292       LYRICS  OF  LABOUR  AND  ROMANCE 

V 

THE    OLD    BRIDGE 

On  the  old,  old  bridge,  with  its  crumbling  stones 
All  covered  with  lichens  red  and  gray, 
Two  lovers  were  talking  in  sweet  low  tones: 
And  we  were  they! 

As  he  leaned  to  breathe  in  her  willing  ear 
The  love  that  he  vowed  would  never  die, 
He  called  her  his  darling,  his  dove  most  dear: 
And  he  was  I! 

She  covered  her  face  from  the  pale  moonlight 
With  her  trembling  hands,  but  her  eyes  looked  through, 
And  listened  and  listened  with  long  delight: 
And  she  was  you! 

On  the  old,  old  bridge,  where  the  lichens  rust, 
Two  lovers  are  learning  the  same  old  lore; 
He  tells  his  love,  and  she  looks  her  trust: 
But  we, — no  more! 


SONNETS   OF  ANGELLIER  293 

VI 

EYES    AND    LIPS 
I 

Our  silent  eyes  alone  interpreted 
The  new-born  feeling  in  the  heart  of  each: 
In  yours  I  read  your  sorrow  without  speech, 

Your  lonely  struggle  in  their  tears  unshed. 

Behind  their  dreamy  sweetness,  as  a  veil, 
I  saw  the  moving  lights  of  trouble  shine; 
And  then  my  eyes  were  brightened  as  with  wine, 

My  spirit  reeled  to  see  your  face  grow  pale! 

Our  deepening  love,  that  is  not  yet  allowed 
Another  language  than  the  eyes,  doth  learn 

To  speak  it  perfectly:  above  the  crowd 

Our  looks  exchange  avowals  and  desires, — 
Like  wave-divided  beacon  lights  that  burn, 

And  talk  to  one  another  by  their  fires. 


When  I  embrace  her  in  a  fragrant  shrine 
Of  climbing  roses,  my  first  kiss  shall  fall 
On  you,  sweet  eyes,  that  mutely  told  me  all, — 

Through  you  my  soul  will  rise  to  make  her  mine. 


294       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 

Upon  your  drooping  lids,  blue- veined  and  fair, 
The  touch  of  tenderness  I  first  will  lay, 
You  springs  of  joy,  lights  of  my  gloomy  day, 

Whose  dear  discovered  secret  bade  me  dare! 

And  when  you  open,  eyes  of  my  fond  dove, 

Your  look  will  shine  with  new  delight,  made  sure 

By  this  forerunner  of  a  faithful  love. 

'Tis  just,  dear  eyes,  so  pensive  and  so  pure, 

That  you  should  bear  the  sealing  kisses  true 

Of  love  unhoped  that  came  to  me  through  you. 


3 

This  was  my  thought;  but  when  beneath  the  rose 
That  hides  the  lonely  bench  where  lovers  rest, 
•  In  friendly  dusk  I  held  her  on  my  breast 

For  one  brief  moment, — while  I  saw  you  close, 

Dear,  yielding  eyes,  as  if  your  lids,  blue-veined 
And  pure,  were  meekly  fain  at  last  to  bear 
The  proffered  homage  of  my  wistful  prayer, — 

In  that  high  moment,  by  your  grace  obtained, 

Forgetting  your  avowals,  your  alarms, 

Your  anguish  and  your  tears,  sweet  weary  eyes, 
Forgetting  that  you  gave  her  to  my  arms, 


SONNETS   OF  ANGELLIER  295 

I  broke  my  promise;  and  my  first  caress, 

Ungrateful,  sought  her  lips  in  sweet  surprise, — 
Her  lips,  which  breathed  a  word  of  tenderness! 


VII 

AN    EVOCATION 

When  first  upon  my  brow  I  felt  your  kiss, 

A  sudden  splendour  filled  me,  like  the  ray 
That  promptly  runs  to  crown  the  hills  with  bliss 

Of  purple  dawn  before  the  golden  day, 
And  ends  the  gloom  it  crosses  at  one  leap. 

My  brow  was  not  unworthy  your  caress; 
For  some  foreboding  joy  had  bade  me  keep 

From  all  affront  the  place  your  lips  would  bless. 

Yet  when  your  mouth  upon  my  mouth  did  lay 
The  royal  touch,  no  rapture  made  me  thrill, 
But  I  remained  confused,  ashamed,  and  still; 
Beneath  your  kiss,  my  queen  without  a  stain, 
I  felt, — like  ghosts  who  rise  at  Judgment  Day, — 
A  throng  of  ancient  kisses  vile  and  vain! 


296       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


VIII 

RESIGNATION 


Well,  you  will  triumph,  dear  and  noble  friend! 
The  holy  love  that  wounded  you  so  deep 
Will  bring  you  balm,  and  on  your  heart  asleep 

The  fragrant  dew  of  healing  will  descend. 

Your  children, — ah,  how  quickly  they  will  grow 
Between  us,  like  a  wall  that  fronts  the  sun, 
Lifting  a  screen  with  rosy  buds  o'errun, 

To  hide  the  shaded  path  where  I  must  go. 

You'll  walk  in  light;  and  dreaming  less  and  less 
Of  him  who  droops  in  gloom  beyond  the  wall, 

Your  mother-soul  will  fill  with  happiness 

When  first  you  hear  your  grandchild's  babbling  call, 

Beneath  the  braided  bloom  of  flower  and  leaf 

That  life  has  wrought  to  veil  your  vanished  grief. 


2 

Then  I  alone  shall  suffer!   I  shall  bear 
The  double  burden  of  our  grief  alone, 

While  I  enlarge  my  soul  to  take  your  share 
Of  pain  and  hold  it  close  beside  my  own. 


SONNETS    OF   ANGELLIER  297 

Our  love  is  torn  asunder;   but  the  crown 
Of  thorns  that  love  has  woven  I  will  make 

My  relic  sacrosanct,  and  press  it  down 

Upon  my  bleeding  heart  that  will  not  break. 

Ah,  that  will  be  the  depth  of  solitude! 
For  my  regret,  that  evermore  endures, 
Will  know  that  new-born  hope  has  conquered  yours; 

And  when  the  evening  comes,  no  gentle  brood 

Of  wondering  children,  gathered  at  my  side, 

Will  sooth  away  the  tears  I  cannot  hide. 
Freely  rendered  front  the  French,  1911. 


298       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


LOVE'S  NEARNESS 

I  THINK  of  thee  when  golden  sunbeams  glimmer 

Across  the  sea; 
And  when  the  waves  reflect  the  moon's  pale  shimmer 

I  think  of  thee. 

I  see  thy  form  when  down  the  distant  highway 

The  dust-clouds  rise; 
In  darkest  night,  above  the  mountain  by-way 

I  see  thine  eyes. 

I  hear  thee  when  the  ocean-tides  returning 

Aloud  rejoice; 
And  on  the  lonely  moor  in  silence  yearning 

I  hear  thy  voice. 

I  dwell  with  thee;  though  thou  art  far  removed, 

Yet  thou  art  near. 
The  sun  goes  down,  the  stars  shine  out, — Beloved 

If  thou  wert  here! 
From  the  German  of  Goethe,  1898. 


TWO  SONGS  OF  HEINE  299 


TWO  SONGS  OF  HEINE 


A  FIR-TREE  standeth  lonely 
On  a  barren  northern  height, 
Asleep,  while  winter  covers 
His  rest  with  robes  of  white. 

In  dreams,  he  sees  a  palm-tree 
In  the  golden  morning-land; 
She  droops  alone  and  silent 
In  burning  wastes  of  sand. 

II 

"  DU    BIST    WIE    EtNTE    BLUME  " 

Fair  art  thou  as  a  flower 

And  innocent  and  shy: 
I  look  on  thee  and  sorrow; 

I  grieve,  I  know  not  why. 

I  long  to  lay,  in  blessing, 
My  hand  upon  thy  brow, 

And  pray  that  God  may  keep  thee 
As  fair  and  pure  as  now. 

1872. 


300       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 


THE   RIVER   OF   DREAMS 

THE  river  of  dreams  runs  quietly  down 

From  its  hidden  home  in  the  forest  of  sleep, 
With  a  measureless  motion  calm  and  deep; 

And  my  boat  slips  out  on  the  current  brown, 
In  a  tranquil  bay  where  the  trees  incline 
Far  over  the  waves,  and  creepers  twine 
Far  over  the  boughs,  as  if  to  steep 
Their  drowsy  bloom  in  the  tide  that  goes 
By  a  secret  way  that  no  man  knows, 

Under  the  branches  bending, 

Under  the  shadows  blending, 

While  the  body  rests,  and  the  passive  soul 
Is  drifted  along  to  an  unseen  goal, 

While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 

The  river  of  dreams^runs  gently  down, 

With  a  leisurely  flow  that  bears  my  bark 
Out  of  the  visionless  woods  of  dark, 

Into  a  glory  that  seems  to  crown 

Valley  and  hill  with  light  from  far, 
Clearer  than  sun  or  moon  or  star, 
Luminous,  wonderful,  weird,  oh,  mark 


THE   RIVER  OF  DREAMS  301 

How  the  radiance  pulses  everywhere, 

In  the  shadowless  vault  of  lucid  air! 
Over  the  mountains  shimmering, 
Up  from  the  fountains  glimmering, — 

'Tis  the  mystical  glow  of  the  inner  light, 

That  shines  in  the  very  noon  of  night, 
While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 

The  river  of  dreams  runs  murmuring  down, 
Through  the  fairest  garden  that  ever  grew; 
And  now,  as  my  boat  goes  drifting  through, 

A  hundred  voices  arise  to  drown 

The  river's  whisper,  and  charm  my  ear 
With  a  sound  I  have  often  longed  to  hear, — 
A  magical  music,  strange  and  new, 
The  wild-rose  ballad,  the  lilac-song, 
The  virginal  chant  of  the  lilies'  throng, 

Blue-bells  silverly  ringing, 

Pansies  merrily  singing, — 

For  all  the  flowers  have  found  their  voice; 
And  I  feel  no  wonder,  but  only  rejoice, 

While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 

The  river  of  dreams  runs  broadening  down, 
Away  from  the  peaceful  garden-shore, 
With  a  current  that  deepens  more  and  more, 


302       LYRICS  OF  LABOUR  AND  ROMANCE 

By  the  league-long  walls  of  a  mighty  town; 
And  I  see  the  hurrying  crowds  of  men 
Gather  like  clouds  and  dissolve  again; 
But  never  a  face  I  have  seen  before. 
They  come  and  go,  they  shift  and  change, 
Their  ways  and  looks  are  wild  and  strange, — 

This  is  a  city  haunted, 

A  multitude  enchanted! 

At  the  sight  of  the  throng  I  am  dumb  with  fear, 
And  never  a  sound  from  their  lips  I  hear, 

While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 

The  river  of  dreams  runs  darkly  down 

Into  the  heart  of  a  desolate  land, 

With  ruined  temples  half-buried  in  sand, 
And  riven  hills,  whose  black  brows  frown 

Over  the  shuddering,  lonely  wave. 

The  air  grows  dim  with  the  dust  of  the  grave; 

No  sign  of  life  on  the  dreary  strand ; 

No  ray  of  light  on  the  moutain's  crest; 

And  a  weary  wind  that  cannot  rest 
Comes  down  the  valley  creeping, 
Lamenting,  wailing,  weeping, — 

I  strive  to  cry  out,  but  my  fluttering  breath 

Is  choked  with  the  clinging  fog  of  death, 
While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 


THE   RIVER   OF  DREAMS  303 

-'  %  \ 

The  river  of  dreams  runs  trembling  down, 
Out  of  the  valley  of  nameless  fear, 
Into  a  country  calm  and  clear, 

With  a  mystical  name  of  high  renown, — 

A  name  that  I  know,  but  may  not  tell, — 
And  there  the  friends  that  I  loved  so  well, 
Old  companions  forever  dear, 
Come  beckoning  down  to  the  river  shore, 
And  hail  my  boat  with  the  voice  of  yore. 

Fair  and  sweet  are  the  places 

Where  I  see  their  unchanged  faces! 

And  I  feel  in  my  heart  with  a  secret  thrill, 
That  the  loved  and  lost  are  living  still, 

While  the  river  of  dreams  runs  down. 

The  river  of  dreams  runs  dimly  down 
By  a  secret  way  that  no  man  knows; 
But  the  soul  lives  on  while  the  river  flows 

Through  the  gardens  bright  and  the  forests  brown; 
And  I  often  think  that  our  whole  life  seems 
To  be  more  than  half  made  up  of  dreams. 
The  changing  sights  and  the  passing  shows, 
The  morning  hopes  and  the  midnight  fears, 
Are  left  behind  with  the  vanished  years; 

Onward,  with  ceaseless  motion, 

The  life-stream  flows  to  the  ocean, 


304       LYRICS   OF  LABOUR  AND   ROMANCE 

While  we  follow  the  tide,  awake  or  asleep, 
Till  we  see  the  dawn  on  Love's  great  deep, 

And  the  shadows  melt,  and  the  soul  is  free, 

The  river  of  dreams  has  reached  the  sea. 
1900. 


SONGS  OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


"LITTLE   BOATIE" 

A  SLUMBER-SONG  FOR  THE  FISHERMAN'S  CHILD 

FURL  your  sail,  my  little  boatie; 

Here's  the  haven  still  and  deep, 
Where  the  dreaming  tides  in-streaming 

Up  the  channel  creep. 
Now  the  sunset  breeze  is  dying; 
Hear  the  plover,  landward  flying, 
Softly  down  the  twilight  crying; 
Come  to  anchor,  little  boatie, 
In  the  port  of  Sleep. 

Far  away,  my  little  boatie, 

Roaring  waves  are  white  with  foam; 
Ships  are  striving,  onward  driving, 
Day  and  night  they  roam. 
Father's  at  the  deep-sea  trawling, 
In  the  darkness,  rowing,  hauling, 
While  the  hungry  winds  are  calling, — 
God  protect  him,  little  boatie, 
Bring  him  safely  home! 
307 


308  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND   ALTAR 

Not  for  you,  my  little  boatie, 

Is  the  wide  and  weary  sea; 
You're  too  slender,  and  too  tender, 
You  must  bide  with  me. 
All  day  long  you  have  been  straying 
Up  and  down  the  shore  and  playing; 
Come  to  harbour,  no  delaying! 
Day  is  over,  little  boatie, 
Night  falls  suddenly. 

Furl  your  sail,  my  little  boatie, 

Fold  your  wings,  my  weary  dove. 
Dews  are  sprinkling,  stars  are  twinkling 

Drowsily  above. 

Cease  from  sailing,  cease  from  rowing; 
Rock  upon  the  dream-tide,  knowing 
Safely  o'er  your  rest  are  glowing, 
All  the  night,  my  little  boatie, 
Harbour-lights  of  love. 


A  MOTHER'S  BIRTHDAY  309 


A  MOTHER'S   BIRTHDAY 

LORD  JESUS,  Thou  hast  known 
A  mother's  love  and  tender  care: 
And  Thou  wilt  hear, 
While  for  my  own 
Mother  most  dear 

I  make  this  birthday  prayer. 

Protect  her  life,  I  pray, 
Who  gave  the  gift  of  life  to  me; 
And  may  she  know, 
From  day  to  day, 
The  deepening  glow 

Of  joy  that  comes  from  Thee. 

As  once  upon  her  breast 

Fearless  and  well  content  I  lay, 
So  let  her  heart, 

On  Thee  at  rest, 
Feel  fear  depart 
And  trouble  fade  away. 


310  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 

Ah,  hold  her  by  the  hand, 
As  once  her  hand  held  mine; 
And  though  she  may 

Not  understand 
Life's  winding  way, 
Lead  her  in  peace  divine. 

I  cannot  pay  my  debt 

For  all  the  love  that  she  has  given; 
But  Thou,  love's  Lord, 

Wilt  not  forget 
Her  due  reward, — 

Bless  her  in  earth  and  heaven. 


SANTA  CHRISTINA  311 


SANTA  CHRISTINA 

SAINTS  are  God's  flowers,  fragrant  souls 
That  His  own  hand  hath  planted, 

Not  in  some  far-off  heavenly  place, 
Or  solitude  enchanted, 

But  here  and  there  and  everywhere, — 
In  lonely  field,  or  crowded  town, 
God  sees  a  flower  when  He  looks  down. 

Some  wear  the  lily's  stainless  white, 

And  some  the  rose  of  passion, 
And  some  the  violet's  heavenly  blue, 

But  each  in  its  own  fashion, 
With  silent  bloom  and  soft  perfume, 

Is  praising  Him  who  from  above 

Beholds  each  lifted  face  of  love. 

One  such  I  knew, — and  had  the  grace 
To  thank  my  God  for  knowing: 

The  beauty  of  her  quiet  life 
Was  like  a  rose  in  blowing, 

So  fair  and  sweet,  so  all-complete 


312  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 

And  all  unconscious,  as  a  flower, 

That  light  and  fragrance  were  her  dower. 

No  convent-garden  held  this  rose, 

Concealed  like  secret  treasure; 
No  royal  terrace  guarded  her 

For  some  sole  monarch's  pleasure. 
She  made  her  shrine,  this  saint  of  mine, 

In  a  bright  home  where  children  played; 

And  there  she  wrought  and  there  she  prayed. 

In  sunshine,  when  the  days  were  glad, 

She  had  the  art  of  keeping 
The  clearest  rays,  to  give  again 

In  days  of  rain  and  weeping; 
Her  blessed  heart  could  still  impart 

Some  portion  of  its  secret  grace, 

And  charity  shone  in  her  face. 

In  joy  she  grew  from  year  to  year; 

And  sorrow  made  her  sweeter; 
And  every  comfort,  still  more  kind; 

And  every  loss,  completer. 
Her  children  came  to  love  her  name, — 

"Christina," — 't  was  a  lip's  caress; 

And  when  they  called,  they  seemed  to  bless. 


SANTA  CHRISTINA  313 

No  more  they  call,  for  she  is  gone 

Too  far  away  to  hear  them; 
And  yet  they  often  breathe  her  name 

As  if  she  lingered  near  them; 
They  cannot  reach  her  with  love's  speech, 

But  when  they  say  "Christina"  now 

'T  is  like  a  prayer  or  like  a  vow : 

A  vow  to  keep  her  life  alive 

In  deeds  of  pure  affection, 
So  that  her  love  shall  find  in  them 

A  daily  resurrection; 
A  constant  prayer  that  they  may  wear 

Some  touch  of  that  supernal  light 

With  which  she  blossoms  in  God's  sight. 


314  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


RENDEZVOUS 

I  COUNT  that  friendship  little  worth 
Which  has  not  many  things  untold, 
Great  longings  that  no  words  can  hold, 

And  passion-secrets  waiting  birth. 

Along  the  slender  wires  of  speech 

Some  message  from  the  heart  is  sent; 
But  who  can  tell  the  whole  that's  meant? 

Our  dearest  thoughts  are  out  of  reach. 

I  have  not  seen  thee,  though  mine  eyes 
Hold  now  the  image  of  thy  face; 
In  vain,  through  form,  I  strive  to  trace 

The  soul  I  love:    that  deeper  lies. 

A  thousand  accidents  control 

Our  meeting  here.     Clasp  hand  in  hand, 
And  swear  to  meet  me  in  that  land 

Where  friends  hold  converse  soul  to  soul. 


GRATITUDE  315 


GRATITUDE 

"Do  you  give  thanks  for  this? — or  that?"    No,  God  be 
thanked 

I  am  not  grateful 

In  that  cold,  calculating  way,  with  blessings  ranked 
As  one,  two,  three,  and  four,— that  would  be  hateful. 

I  only  know  that  every  day  brings  good  above 

My  poor  deserving; 

I  only  feel  that  in  the  road  of  Life  true  Love 
Is  leading  me  along  and  never  swerving. 

Whatever  gifts  and  mercies  to  my  lot  may  fall, 

I  would  not  measure 

As  worth  a  certain  price  in  praise,  or  great  or  small; 
But  take  and  use  them  all  with  simple  pleasure. 

For  when  we  gladly  eat  our  daily  bread,  we  bless 

The  Hand  that  feeds  us; 

And  when  we  tread  the  road  of  Life  in  cheerfulness, 
Our  very  heart-beats  praise  the  Love  that  leads  us. 


316  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


TRANSFORMATION 

ONLY  a  little  shrivelled  seed, 
It  might  be  flower,  or  grass,  or  weed; 
Only  a  box  of  earth  on  the  edge 
Of  a  narrow,  dusty  window-ledge; 
Only  a  few  scant  summer  showers; 
Only  a  few  clear  shining  hours; 
That  was  all.     Yet  God  could  make 
Out  of  these,  for  a  sick  child's  sake, 
A  blossom-wonder,  fair  and  sweet 
As  ever  broke  at  an  angel's  feet. 

Only  a  life  of  barren  pain, 
Wet  with  sorrowful  tears  for  rain, 
Warmed  sometimes  by  a  wandering  gleam 
Of  joy,  that  seemed  but  a  happy  dream; 
A  life  as  common  and  brown  and  bare 
As  the  box  of  earth  in  the  window  there; 
Yet  it  bore,  at  last,  the  precious  bloom 
Of  a  perfect  soul  in  that  narrow  room; 
Pure  as  the  snowy  leaves  that  fold 
Over  the  flower's  heart  of  gold. 

1875- 


THE  WIND   OF  SORROW  317 


THE  WIND   OF  SORROW 

THE  fire  of  love  was  burning,  yet  so  low 

That  in  the  peaceful  dark  it  made  no  rays, 
And  in  the  light  of  perfect-placid  days 

The  ashes  hid  the  smouldering  embers'  glow. 

Vainly,  for  love's  delight,  we  sought  to  throw 

New  pleasures  on  the  pyre  to  make  it  blaze: 
In  life's  calm  air  and  tranquil-prosperous  ways 

We  missed  the  radiant  heat  of  long  ago. 

Then  in  the  night,  a  night  of  sad  alarms, 

Bitter  with  pain  and  black  with  fog  of  fears 

That  drove  us  trembling  to  each  other's  arms, 
Across  the  gulf  of  darkness  and  salt  tears 

Into  life's  calm  the  wind  of  sorrow  came, 

And  fanned  the  fire  of  love  to  clearest  flame. 


3i8  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


HIDE  AND   SEEK 

I 

ALL  the  trees  are  sleeping,  all  the  winds  are  still, 
All  the  fleecy  flocks  of  cloud,  gone  beyond  the  hill; 
Through  the  noon-day  silence,  down  the  woods  of  June, 
Hark,  a  little  hunter's  voice,  running  with  a  tune. 

"Hide  and  seek! 

"When  I  speak, 

"You  must  answer  me: 

"Call  again, 

"Merry  men, 
"Coo-ee,  coo-ee,  coo-ee!" 

Now  I  hear  his  footsteps  rustling  in  the  grass: 
Hidden  in  my  leafy  nook,  shall  I  let  him  pass? 
Just  a  low,  soft  whistle,— quick  the  hunter  turns, 
Leaps  upon  me  laughing  loud,  rolls  me  in  the  ferns. 

"Hold  him  fast, 

"Caught  at  last! 

"Now  you're  it,  you  see. 

"Hide  your  eye, 

"Till  I  cry, 
"Coo-ee,  coo-ee,  coo-ee!" 


HIDE  AND  SEEK  319 

II 

Long  ago  he  left  me,  long  and  long  ago; 
Now  I  wander  thro'  the  world,  seeking  high  and  low. 
Hidden  safe  and  happy,  in  some  pleasant  place, — 
If  I  could  but  hear  his  voice,  soon  I'd  see  his  face! 

Far  away, 

Many  a  day, 

Where  can  Barney  be? 

Answer,  dear, 

Don't  you  hear? 
Coo-ee,  coo-ee,  coo-ee! 

Birds  that  every  spring-time  sung  him  full  of  joy, 
Flowers  he  loved  to  pick  for  me,  mind  me  of  my  boy. 
Somewhere  he  is  waiting  till  my  steps  come  nigh ; 
Love  may  hide  itself  awhile,  but  love  can  never  die. 

Heart,  be  glad, 

The  little  lad 

Will  call  again  to  thee: 

"Father  dear, 

"Heaven  is  here, 
"Coo-ee,  coo-ee,  coo-ee!" 
1898. 


320  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


AUTUMN  IN  THE   GARDEN 

WHEN  the  frosty  kiss  of  Autumn  in  the  dark 

Makes  its  mark 
On  the  flowers,  and  the  misty  morning  grieves 

Over  fallen  leaves; 
Then  my  olden  garden,  where  the  golden  soil 

Through  the  toil 
Of  a  hundred  years  is  mellow,  rich,  and  deep, 

Whispers  in  its  sleep. 

'Mid  the  crumpled  beds  of  marigold  and  phlox, 

Where  the  box 
Borders  with  its  glossy  green  the  ancient  walks, 

There's  a  voice  that  talks 
Of  the  human  hopes  that  bloomed  and  withered  here 

Year  by  year, — 
And  the  dreams  that  brightened  all  the  labouring  hours, 

Fading  as  the  flowers. 

Yet  the  whispered  story  does  not  deepen  grief; 

But  relief 
For  the  loneliness  of  sorrow  seems  to  flow 

From  the  Long-Ago, 


AUTUMN  IN  THE  GARDEN  321 

When  I  think  of  other  lives  that  learned,  like  mine, 

To  resign, 
And  remember  that  the  sadness  of  the  fall 

Comes  alike  to  all. 

What  regrets,  what  longings  for  the  lost  were  theirs! 

And  what  prayers  ,. 

For  the  silent  strength  that  nerves  us  to  endure 

Things  we  cannot  cure! 
Pacing  up  and  down  the  garden  where  they  paced, 

I  have  traced 
All  their  well-worn  paths  of  patience,  till  I  find 

Comfort  in  my  mind. 

Faint  and  far  away  their  ancient  griefs  appear: 

Yet  how  near 
Is  the  tender  voice,  the  careworn,  kindly  face, 

Of  the  human  race! 
Let  us  walk  together  in  the  garden,  dearest  heart, — 

Not  apart! 
They  who  know  the  sorrows  other  lives  have  known 

Never  walk  alone. 
October,  1903 


322  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


THE  MESSAGE 

WAKING  from  tender  sleep, 
My  neighbour's  little  child 

Put  out  his  baby  hand  to  me, 
Looked  in  my  face,  and  smiled. 

It  seems  as  if  he  came 

Home  from  a  happy  land, 
To  bring  a  message  to  my  heart 

And  make  me  understand. 

Somewhere,  among  bright  dreams, 
A  child  that  once  was  mine 

Has  whispered  wordless  love  to  him, 
And  given  him  a  sign. 

Comfort  of  kindly  speech, 

And  counsel  of  the  wise, 
Have  helped  me  less  than  what  I  read 

In  those  deep-smiling  eyes. 

Sleep  sweetly,  little  friend, 
And  dream  again  of  heaven: 

With  double  love  I  kiss  your  hand, — 
Your  message  has  been  given. 

November,  1903. 


DULCIS  MEMORIA  323 


DULCIS  MEMORIA 

LONG,  long  ago  I  heard  a  little  song, 
(Ah,  was  it  long  ago,  or  yesterday?) 

So  lowly,  slowly  wound  the  tune  along, 
That  far  into  my  heart  it  found  the  way: 

A  melody  consoling  and  endearing; 

And  now,  in  silent  hours,  I'm  often  hearing 
The  small,  sweet  song  that  does  not  die  away. 

Long,  long  ago  I  saw  a  little  flower — 
(Ah,  was  it  long  ago,  or  yesterday?) 

So  fair  of  face  and  fragrant  for  an  hour, 
That  something  dear  to  me  it  seemed  to  say, — 

A  wordless  joy  that  blossomed  into  being; 

And  now,  in  winter  days,  I'm  often  seeing 
The  friendly  flower  that  does  not  fade  away. 

Long,  long  ago  we  had  a  little  child, — 
(Ah,  was  it  long  ago,  or  yesterday?) 

Into  his  mother's  eyes  and  mine  he  smiled 
Unconscious  love;   warm  in  our  arms  he  lay. 

An  angel  called !    Dear  heart,  we  could  not  hold  him; 

Yet  secretly  your  arms  and  mine  infold  him — 
Our  little  child  who  does  not  go  away. 


324  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 

Long,  long  ago?    Ah,  memory,  make  it  clear — 
(It  was  not  long  ago,  but  yesterday,) 

So  little  and  so  helpless  and  so  dear — 
Let  not  the  song  be  lost,  the  flower  decay! 

His  voice,  his  waking  eyes,  his  gentle  sleeping: 

The  smallest  things  are  safest  in  thy  keeping, — 
Sweet  memory,  keep  our  child  with  us  alway. 

November \  1903. 


THE  WINDOW  325 


THE  WINDOW 

ALL  night  long,  by  a  distant  bell 

The  passing  hours  were  notched 
On  the  dark,  while  her  breathing  rose  and  fell; 

And  the  spark  of  life  I  watched 
In  her  face  was  glowing,  or  fading, — who  could  tell  ? — 
And  the  open  window  of  the  room, 

With  a  flare  of  yellow  light, 
Was  peering  out  into  the  gloom, 
Like  an  eye  that  searched  the  night. 

Oh,  what  do  you  see  in  the  dark,  little  window,  and  why  do 
you  peer? 

"I  see  that  the  garden  is  crowded  with  creeping  forms  of  fear: 

Little  white  ghosts  in  the  locust-tree,  wave  in  the  night- 
wind's  breath, 

And  low  in  the  leafy  laurels  the  lurking  shadow  of  death" 

Sweet,  clear  notes  of  a  waking  bird 

Told  of  the  passing  away 
Of  the  dark, — and  my  darling  may  have  heard; 

For  she  smiled  in  her  sleep,  while  the  ray 
Of  the  rising  dawn  spoke  joy  without  a  word, 


326  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 

Till  the  splendour  born  in  the  east  outburned 
The  yellow  lamplight,  pale  and  thin, 

And  the  open  window  slowly  turned 
To  the  eye  of  the  morning,  looking  in. 

Oh,  what  do  you  see  in  the  room,  little  window,  that  makes 

you  so  bright? 

11 1  see  that  a  child  is  asleep  on  her  pillow,  soft  and  white: 
With  the  rose  of  life  on  her  lips,  the  pulse  of  life  in  her 

breast, 

And  the  arms  of  God  around  her,  she  quietly  takes  her  rest." 
Neuilly,  June,  1909. 


PEACE  327 


PEACE 

WITH  eager  heart  and  will  on  fire, 
I  strove  to  win  my  great  desire. 
" Peace  shall  be  mine,"  I  said;  but  life 
Grew  bitter  in  the  barren  strife. 

My  soul  was  weary,  and  my  pride 
Was  wounded  deep;  to  Heaven  I  cried, 
"God  grant  me  peace  or  I  must  die;" 
The  dumb  stars  glittered  no  reply. 

Broken  at  last,  I  bowed  my  head, 
Forgetting  all  myself,  and  said, 
"Whatever  comes,  His  will  be  done;" 
And  in  that  moment  peace  was  won. 


328  SONGS  OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


THE  BARGAIN 

WHAT  shall  I  give  for  thee, 
Thou  Pearl  of  greatest  price? 

For  all  the  treasures  I  possess 
Would  not  suffice. 

I  give  my  store  of  gold; 

It  is  but  earthly  dross: 
But  thou  wilt  make  me  rich,  beyond 

All  fear  of  loss. 

Mine  honours  I  resign; 

They  are  but  small  at  best: 
Thou  like  a  royal  star  wilt  shine 

Upon  my  breast. 

My  worldly  joys  I  give, 

The  flowers  with  which  I  played; 
Thy  beauty,  far  more  heavenly  fair, 

Shall  never  fade. 

Dear  Lord,  is  that  enough  ? 

Nay,  not  a  thousandth  part. 
Well,  then,  I  have  but  one  thing  more: 

Take  Thou  my  heart. 


BITTER-SWEET  329 


BITTER-SWEET 

JUST  to  give  up,  and  trust 
All  to  a  Fate  unknown, 
Plodding  along  life's  road  in  the  dust, 

Bounded  by  walls  of  stone; 
Never  to  have  a  heart  at  peace; 
Never  to  see  when  care  will  cease; 
Just  to  be  still  when  sorrows  fall — 
This  is  the  bitterest  lesson  of  all. 

Just  to  give  up,  and  rest 
All  on  a  Love  secure, 
Out  of  a  world  that's  hard  at  the  best, 

Looking  to  heaven  as  sure; 
Ever  to  hope,  through  cloud  and  fear, 
In  darkest  night,  that  the  dawn  is  near; 
Just  to  wait  at  the  Master's  feet — 
Surely,  now,  the  bitter  is  sweet. 


330  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


TO  THE   CHILD   JESUS 

I 

THE   NATIVITY 

COULD  every  time-worn  heart  but  see  Thee  once  again, 
A  happy  human  child,  among  the  homes  of  men, 
The  age  of  doubt  would  pass, — the  vision  of  Thy  face 
Would  silently  restore  the  childhood  of  the  race. 

n 

THE   FLIGHT   INTO    EGYPT 

Thou  wayfaring  Jesus,  a  pilgrim  and  stranger, 

Exiled  from  heaven  by  love  at  thy  birth, 
Exiled  again  from  thy  rest  in  the  manger, 

A  fugitive  child  'mid  the  perils  of  earth, — 
Cheer  with  thy  fellowship  all  who  are  weary, 

Wandering  far  from  the  land  that  they  love; 
Guide  every  heart  that  is  homeless  and  dreary, 

Safe  to  its  home  in  thy  presence  above. 


SONG  OF  A  PILGRIM-SOUL  331 


SONG  OF  A  PILGRIM-SOUL 

MARCH  on,  my  soul,  nor  like  a  laggard  stay! 
March  swiftly  on.  Yet  err  not  from  the  way 
Where  all  the  nobly  wise  of  old  have  trod, — 
The  path  of  faith,  made  by  the  sons  of  God. 

Follow  the  marks  that  they  have  set  beside 
The  narrow,  cloud-swept  track,  to  be  thy  guide: 
Follow,  and  honour  what  the  past  has  gained, 
And  forward  still,  that  more  may  be  attained. 

Something  to  learn,  and  something  to  forget: 
Hold  fast  the  good,  and  seek  the  better  yet: 
Press  on,  and  prove  the  pilgrim-hope  of  youth : 
The  Creeds  are  milestones  on  the  road  to  Truth. 
1892 


332  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 

HYMN  OF  JOY 

To  THE  Music  OF  BEETHOVEN'S  NINTH  SYMPHONY 

JOYFUL,  joyful,  we  adore  Thee, 

God  of  glory,  Lord  of  love; 
Hearts  unfold  like  flowers  before  Thee, 

Praising  Thee  their  sun  above. 
Melt  the  clouds  of  sin  and  sadness; 

Drive  the  dark  of  doubt  away; 
Giver  of  immortal  gladness, 

Fill  us  with  the  light  of  day! 

All  Thy  works  with  joy  surround  Thee, 

Earth  and  heaven  reflect  Thy  rays, 
Stars  and  angels  sing  around  Thee, 

Centre  of  unbroken  praise: 
Field  and  forest,  vale  and  mountain, 

Blooming  meadow,  flashing  sea, 
Chanting  bird  and  flowing  fountain, 

Call  us  to  rejoice  in  Thee. 

Thou  art  giving  and  forgiving, 
Ever  blessing,  ever  blest, 

Well-spring  of  the  joy  of  living, 
Ocean-depth  of  happy  rest! 


HYMN   OF   JOY  333 

Thou  our  Father,  Christ  our  Brother, — 

All  who  live  in  love  are  Thine: 
Teach  us  how  to  love  each  other, 

Lift  us  to  the  Joy  Divine. 

Mortals  join  the  mighty  chorus, 

Which  the  morning  stars  began; 
Father-love  is  reigning  o'er  us, 

Brother-love  binds  man  to  man. 
Ever  singing  march  we  onward, 

Victors  in  the  midst  of  strife; 
Joyful  music  lifts  us  sunward 

In  the  triumph  song  of  life. 
1908 


334  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND  ALTAR 


ODE  TO   PEACE 
I 

IN   EXCELSIS 

Two  dwellings,  Peace,  are  thine. 

One  is  the  mountain-height, 
Uplifted  in  the  loneliness  of  light 

Beyond  the  realm  of  shadows, — fine, 
And  far,  and  clear, — where  advent  of  the  night 
Means  only  glorious  nearness  of  the  stars, 
And  dawn  unhindered  breaks  above  the  bars 
That  long  the  lower  world  in  twilight  keep. 
Thou  sleepest  not,  and  hast  no  need  of  sleep, 
For  all  thy  cares  and  fears  have  dropped  away; 
The  night's  fatigue,  the  fever-fret  of  day, 
Are  far  below  thee;    and  earth's  weary  wars, 

In  vain  expense  of  passion,  pass 
Before  thy  sight  like  visions  in  a  glass, — 
Or  like  the  wrinkles  of  the  storm  that  creep 

Across  the  sea  and  leave  no  trace 
Of  trouble  on  that  immemorial  face, — 
So  brief  appear  the  conflicts,  and  so  slight 
The  wounds  men  give,  the  things  for  which  they 
fight! 


ODE  TO  PEACE  335 

Here  hangs  a  fortress  on  the  distant  steep, — 

A  lichen  clinging  to  the  rock. 
There  sails  a  fleet  upon  the  deep, — 

A  wandering  flock 
Of  snow-winged  gulls.     And  yonder,  in  the  plain, 

A  marble  palace  shines, — a  grain 

Of  mica  glittering  in  the  rain. 

Beneath  thy  feet  the  clouds  are  rolled 

By  voiceless  winds:  and  far  between 
The  rolling  clouds,  new  shores  and  peaks  are  seen, 

In  shimmering  robes  of  green  and  gold, 

And  faint  aerial  hue 
That  silent  fades  into  the  silent  blue. 

Thou,  from  thy  mountain-hold, 
All  day  in  tranquil  wisdom  looking  down 
On  distant  scenes  of  human  toil  and  strife, 
All  night,  with  eyes  aware  of  loftier  life 
Uplifted  to  the  sky  where  stars  are  sown, 
Dost  watch  the  everlasting  fields  grow  white 
Unto  the  harvest  of  the  sons  of  light, 
And  welcome  to  thy  dwelling-place  sublime 
The  few  strong  souls  that  dare  to  climb 
The  slippery  crags,  and  find  thee  on  the  height. 


336  SONGS   OF  HEARTH  AND   ALTAR 

II 

DE   PROFUNDIS 

But  in  the  depth  thou  hast  another  home, 

For  hearts  less  daring,  or  more  frail. 
Thou  dwellest  also  in  the  shadowy  vale; 

And  pilgrim-souls  that  roam 
With  weary  feet  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Bearing  the  burden  and  the  heat 

Of  toilful  days, 
Turn  from  the  dusty  ways 
To  find  thee  in  thy  green  and  still  retreat. 

Here  is  no  vision  wide  outspread 
Before  the  lonely  and  exalted  seat 
Of  all-embracing  knowledge.    Here,  instead, 
A  little  cottage,  and  a  garden-nook, 

With  outlooks  brief  and  sweet 
Across  the  meadows,  and  along  the  brook, — 

A  little  stream  that  nothing  knows 
Of  the  great  sea  to  which  it  gladly  flows, — 
A  little  field  that  bears  a  little  wheat 
To  make  a  portion  of  earth's  daily  bread. 
The  vast  cloud-armies  overhead 
Are  marshalled,  and  the  wild  wind  blows 
Its  trumpet,  but  thou  canst  not  tell 
Whence  comes  the  wind  nor  where  it  goes; 


ODE  TO  PEACE  337 

Nor  dost  thou  greatly  care,  since  all  is  well. 

Thy  daily  task  is  done, 
And  now  the  wages  of  repose  are  won. 
Here  friendship  lights  the  fire,  and  every  heart, 
Sure  of  itself  and  sure  of  all  the  rest, 
Dares  to  be  true,  and  gladly  takes  its  part 
In  open  converse,  bringing  forth  its  best: 
And  here  is  music,  melting  every  chain 

Of  lassitude  and  pain: 
And  here,  at  last,  is  sleep  with  silent  gifts, — 
Kind  sleep,  the  tender  nurse  who  lifts 
The  soul  grown  weary  of  the  waking  world, 
And  lays  it,  with  its  thoughts  all  furled, 
Its  fears  forgotten,  and  its  passions  still, 
On  the  deep  bosom  of  the  Eternal  Will. 


INSCRIPTIONS,   GREETINGS,  AND 
EPIGRAMS 


FOR  KATRINA'S  SUN-DIAL 

IN  HER  GARDEN  OF  YADDO 

HOURS  fly, 
Flowers  die. 
New  days, 
New  ways, 
Pass  by. 
Love  stays. 


Time  is 

Too  Slow  for  those  who  Wait, 
Too  Swift  for  those  who  Fear, 
Too  Long  for  those  who  Grieve, 
Too  Short  for  those  who  Rejoice; 
But  for  those  who  Love, 

Time  is  not. 


342  INSCRIPTIONS  AND   GREETINGS 


FOR  KATRINA'S  WINDOW 
IN  HER  TOWER  OF  YADDO 

THIS  is  the  window's  message, 

In  silence,  to  the  Queen: 
"Thou  hast  a  double  kingdom 

And  I  am  set  between: 
Look  out  and  see  the  glory, 

On  hill  and  plain  and  sky: 
Look  in  and  see  the  light  of  love 

That  nevermore  shall  die!" 

L'ENVOI 

Window  in  the  Queen's  high  tower, 
This  shall  be  thy  magic  power! 
Shut  the  darkness  and  the  doubt, 
Shut  the  storm  and  conflict,  out; 
Wind  and  hail  and  snow  and  rain 
Dash  against  thee  all  in  vain. 
Let  in  nothing  from  the  night, — 
Let  in  every  ray  of  light. 


FOR  THE  FRIENDS  AT  HURSTMONT       343 


FOR  THE  FRIENDS  AT  HURSTMONT 

THE  HOUSE 

THE  cornerstone  in  Truth  is  laid, 
The  guardian  walls  of  Honour  made, 
The  roof  of  Faith  is  built  above, 
The  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  Love: 
Though  rains  descend  and  loud  winds  call, 
This  happy  house  shall  never  fall. 

THE  HEARTH 

WHEN  the  logs  are  burning  free, 
Then  the  fire  is  full  of  glee: 
When  each  heart  gives  out  its  best, 
Then  the  talk  is  full  of  zest: 
Light  your  fire  and  never  fear, 
Life  was  made  for  love  and  cheer. 

THE  DOOR 

THE  lintel  low  enough  to  keep  out  pomp  and  pride: 
The  threshold  high  enough  to  turn  deceit  aside: 
The  doorband  strong  enough  from  robbers  to  defend: 
This  door  will  open  at  a  touch  to  welcome  every  friend. 


344  INSCRIPTIONS   AND    GREETINGS 

THE  DIAL 

TIME  can  never  take 
What  Time  did  not  give; 

When  your  shadows  have  all  passed, 
I  shall  live. 


THE  SUN-DIAL  AT  MORVEN 

FOR  BAYARD  AND  HELEN  STOCKTON 

Two  hundred  years  of  blessing  I  record 
For  Morven's  house,  protected  by  the  Lord: 
And  still  I  stand  among  old-fashioned  flowers 
To  mark  for  Morven  many  sunlit  hours. 


THE   SUN-DIAL  AT  WELLS   COLLEGE       345 


THE  SUN-DIAL  AT  WELLS   COLLEGE 

FOR  THE  CLASS  OF  1904 

THE  shadow  by  my  finger  cast 
Divides  the  future  from  the  past: 
Before  it,  sleeps  the  unborn  hour, 
In  darkness,  and  beyond  thy  power: 
Behind  its  unreturning  line, 
The  vanished  hour,  no  longer  thine: 
One  hour  alone  is  in  thy  hands, — 
The  NOW  on  which  the  shadow  stands. 
March,  1904. 


346  GREETINGS   AND   EPIGRAMS 


TO   MARK  TWAIN 


AT  A  BIRTHDAY  FEAST 

WITH  memories  old  and  wishes  new 

We  crown  our  cups  again, 

And  here's  to  you,  and  here's  to  you 

With  love  that  ne'er  shall  wane! 

And  may  you  keep,  at  sixty-seven, 

The  joy  of  earth,  the  hope  of  heaven, 

And  fame  well-earned,  and  friendship  true, 

And  peace  that  comforts  every  pain, 

And  faith  that  fights  the  battle  through, 

And  all  your  heart's  unbounded  wealth, 

And  all  your  wit,  and  all  your  health, — 

Yes,  here's  a  hearty  health  to  you, 

And  here's  to  you,  and  here's  to  you, 

Long  life  to  you,  Mark  Twain. 


TO  MARK  TWAIN  34? 

n 

AT  THE  MEMORIAL  MEETING 

We  knew  you  well,  dear  Yorick  of  the  West, 

The  very  soul  of  large  and  friendly  jest! 

You  loved  and  mocked  the  broad  grotesque  of  things 

In  this  new  world  where  all  the  folk  are  kings. 

Your  breezy  humour  cleared  the  air,  with  sport 
Of  shams  that  haunt  the  democratic  court; 
For  even  where  the  sovereign  people  rule, 
A  human  monarch  needs  a  royal  fool. 

Your  native  drawl  lent  flavour  to  your  wit; 
Your  arrows  lingered  but  they  always  hit; 
Homeric  mirth  around  the  circle  ran, 
But  left  no  wound  upon  the  heart  of  man. 

We  knew  you  kind  in  trouble,  brave  in  pain; 
We  saw  your  honour  kept  without  a  stain; 
We  read  this  lesson  of  our  Yorick's  years, — 
True  wisdom  comes  with  laughter  and  with  tears. 
November  30,  1910. 


348  GREETINGS   AND   EPIGRAMS 


STARS  AND  THE  SOUL 

(To  CHARLES  A.  YOUNG,  ASTRONOMER) 

"Two  things,"  the  wise  man  said,  "fill  me  with  awe: 
The  starry  heavens  and  the  moral  law." 
Nay,  add  another  wonder  to  thy  roll, — 
The  living  marvel  of  the  human  soul! 

Born  in  the  dust  and  cradled  in  the  dark, 
It  feels  the  fire  of  an  immortal  spark, 
And  learns  to  read,  with  patient,  searching  eyes, 
The  splendid  secret  of  the  unconscious  skies. 

For  God  thought  Light  before  He  spoke  the  word; 
The  darkness  understood  not,  though  it  heard: 
But  man  looks  up  to  where  the  planets  swim, 
And  thinks  God's  thoughts  of  glory  after  Him. 

What  knows  the  star  that  guides  the  sailor's  way, 
Or  lights  the  lover's  bower  with  liquid  ray, 
Of  toil  and  passion,  danger  and  distress, 
Brave  hope,  true  love,  and  utter  faithfulness? 


STARS  AND  THE  SOUL  349 

But  human  hearts  that  suffer  good  and  ill, 
And  hold  to  virtue  with  a  loyal  will, 
Adorn  the  law  that  rules  our  mortal  strife 
With  star-surpassing  victories  of  life. 

So  take  our  thanks,  dear  reader  of  the  skies, 
Devout  astronomer,  most  humbly  wise, 
For  lessons  brighter  than  the  stars  can  give, 
And  inward  light  that  helps  us  all  to  live. 


TO   JULIA  MARLOWE 

(READING  KEATS'  ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN) 

LONG  had  I  loved  this  "Attic  shape,"  the  brede 
Of  marble  maidens  round  this  urn  divine: 

But  when  your  golden  voice  began  to  read, 
The  empty  urn  was  rilled  with  Chian  wine. 


350  GREETINGS   AND   EPIGRAMS 


TO  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 

May  4th,  1898. — To-day,  fishing  down  the  Swiftwater,  I  found  Joseph 
Jefferson  on  a  big  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  brook,  casting  the  fly  for  trout 
He  said  he  had  fished  this  very  stream  three-and-forty  years  ago;  and 
near  by,  in  the  Paradise  Valley,  he  wrote  his  famous  play. — Leaf  from  my 
Diary. 

WE  met  on  Nature's  stage, 

And  May  had  set  the  scene, 
With  bishop-caps  standing  in  delicate  ranks, 
And  violets  blossoming  over  the  banks, 

While  the  brook  ran  full  between. 

The  waters  rang  your  call, 
With  frolicsome  waves  a-twinkle, — 

They  knew  you  as  boy,  and  they  knew  you  as  man, 

And  every  wave,  as  it  merrily  ran, 
Cried,  "Enter  Rip  van  Winkle!" 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD  351 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

IN  mirth  he  mocks  the  other  birds  at  noon, 
Catching  the  lilt  of  every  easy  tune; 
But  when  the  day  departs  he  sings  of  love, — 
His  own  wild  song  beneath  the  listening  moon. 


THE  EMPTY   QUATRAIN 

A  FLAWLESS  cup:  how  delicate  and  fine 
The  flowing  curve  of  every  jewelled  line! 
Look,  turn  it  up  or  down,  't  is  perfect  still, — 
But  holds  no  drop  of  life's  heart-warming  wine. 


PAN  LEARNS  MUSIC 

FOR  A  SCULPTURE  BY  SARA  GREENE 

LiMBER-limbed,  lazy  god,  stretched  on  the  rock, 
Where  is  sweet  Echo,  and  where  is  your  flock? 
What  are  you  making  here?     " Listen,"  said  Pan,- 
"Out  of  a  river-reed  music  for  man!" 


352  GREETINGS   AND   EPIGRAMS 


THE  VALLEY  OF  VAIN  VERSES 

THE  grief  that  is  but  feigning, 
And  weeps  melodious  tears 
Of  delicate  complaining 
From  self-indulgent  years; 
The  mirth  that  is  but  madness, 
And  has  no  inward  gladness 
Beneath  its  laughter  straining, 
To  capture  thoughtless  ears; 

The  love  that  is  but  passion 
Of  amber-scented  lust; 
The  doubt  that  is  but  fashion; 
The  faith  that  has  no  trust; 
These  Thamyris  disperses, 
In  the  Valley  of  Vain  Verses 
Below  the  Mount  Parnassian, — 
And  they  crumble  into  dust. 


THE  SHEPHERD   OF  NYMPHS  353 


THE  SHEPHERD   OF  NYMPHS 

THE  nymphs  a  shepherd  took 
To  guard  their  snowy  sheep; 
He  led  them  down  along  the  brook, 
And  guided  them  with  pipe  and  crook, 
Until  he  fell  asleep. 

But  when  the  piping  stayed, 

Across  the  flowery  mead 
The  milk-white  nymphs  ran  out  afraid: 
O  Thyrsis,  wake!    Your  flock  has  strayed,- 

The  nymphs  a  shepherd  need. 


354  GREETINGS  AND   EPIGRAMS 


ECHOES  FROM  THE   GREEK   ANTHOLOGY 

I 

STARLIGHT 

WITH  two  bright  eyes,  my  star,  my  love, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  stars  above: 
Ah,  would  that  I  the  heaven  might  be 
With  a  million  eyes  to  look  on  thee. 
Plato. 


n 

ROSELEAF 

A  little  while  the  rose, 
And  after  that  the  thorn; 
An  hour  of  dewy  morn, 
And  then  the  glamour  goes. 
Ah,  love  in  beauty  born, 
A  little  while  the  rose! 
Unknown. 


ECHOES  FROM  THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY    355 
III 

PHOSPHOR — HESPER 

O  morning  star,  farewell! 

My  love  I  now  must  leave; 
The  hours  of  day  I  slowly  tell, 
And  turn  to  her  with  the  twilight  bell, — 

O  welcome,  star  of  eve! 
Meleager. 

IV 

SEASONS 

Sweet  in  summer,  cups  of  snow, 
Cooling  thirsty  lips  aglow; 
Sweet  to  sailors  winter-bound, 
Spring  arrives  with  garlands  crowned; 
Sweeter  yet  the  hour  that  covers 
With  one  cloak  a  pair  of  lovers, 
Living  lost  in  golden  weather, 
While  they  talk  of  love  together. 
Asclepiades. 


356  GREETINGS   AND   EPIGRAMS 

V 

THE  VINE  AND  THE  GOAT 

Although  you  eat  me  to  the  root, 
I  yet  shall  bear  enough  of  fruit 
For  wine  to  sprinkle  your  dim  eyes, 
When  you  are  made  a  sacrifice. 
Euenus. 

VI 

THE  PROFESSOR 

Seven  pupils,  in  the  class 

Of  Professor  Callias, 

Listen  silent  while  he  drawls, — 

Three  are  benches,  four  are  walls. 

Unknown. 


ONE  WORLD  357 


ONE  WORLD 

"The  worlds  in  which  we  live  are  two 
The  world  'I  am'  and  the  world  ll  do.'" 

THE  worlds  in  which  we  live  at  heart  are  one, 
The  world  "I  am,"  the  fruit  of  "I  have  done"; 
And  underneath  these  worlds  of  flower  and  fruit, 
The  world  "I  love," — the  only  living  root. 


JOY  AND   DUTY 

"JoY  is  a  Duty," — so  with  golden  lore 
The  Hebrew  rabbis  taught  in  days  of  yore, 
And  happy  human  hearts  heard  in  their  speech 
Almost  the  highest  wisdom  man  can  reach. 

But  one  bright  peak  still  rises  far  above, 
And  there  the  Master  stands  whose  name  is  Love, 
Saying  to  those  whom  weary  tasks  employ: 
"Life  is  divine  when  Duty  is  a  Joy." 


358  GREETINGS   AND   EPIGRAMS 


THE  PRISON  AND  THE  ANGEL 

SELF  is  the  only  prison  that  can  ever  bind  the  soul; 

Love  is  the  only  angel  who  can  bid  the  gates  unroll; 

And  when  he  comes  to  call  thee,  arise  and  follow  fast; 

His  way  may  lie  through  darkness,  but  it  leads  to  light  at  last. 


THE  WAY 

WHO  seeks  fo:  heaven  alone  to  save  his  soul, 
May  keep  the  path,  but  will  not  reach  the  goal; 
While  he  who  walks  in  love  may  wander  far, 
But  God  will  bring  him  where  the  Blessed  are. 


LOVE  AND  LIGHT  359 


LOVE  AND   LIGHT 

THERE  are  many  kinds  of  love,  as  many  kinds  of  light, 
And  every  kind  of  love  makes  a  glory  in  the  night. 
There  is  love  that  stirs  the  heart,  and  love  that  gives  it  rest, 
But  the  love  that  leads  life  upward  is  the  noblest  and  the  best. 


THE  ARROW 

LIFE  is  an  arrow — therefore  you  must  know 
What  mark  to  aim  at,  how  to  use  the  bow — 
Then  draw  it  to  the  head,  and  let  it  go! 


360  GREETINGS  AND   EPIGRAMS 


FOUR  THINGS 

FOUR  things  a  man  must  learn  to  do 
If  he  would  make  his  record  true: 
To  think  without  confusion  clearly; 
To  love  his  fellow-men  sincerely; 
To  act  from  honest  motives  purely; 
To  trust  in  God  and  Heaven  securely. 


THE   GREAT  RIVER 

"In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace." 

O  MIGHTY  river!  strong,  eternal  Will, 
Wherein  the  streams  of  human  good  and  ill 
Are  onward  swept,  conflicting,  to  the  sea! 
The  world  is  safe  because  it  floats  in  Thee. 


WAYFARING   PSALMS 


THE   DISTANT   ROAD 

BLESSED  is  the  man  that  beholdeth  the  face  of  a  friend  in  a 

far  country, 
The  darkness  of  his  heart  is  melted  in  the  dawning  of  day 

within  him, 

It  is  like  the  sound  of  a  sweet  music  heard  long  ago  and  half 

forgotten: 
It  is  like  the  coming  back  of  birds  to  a  wood  when  the  winter 

is  ended. 

I  knew  not  the  sweetness  of  the  fountain  till  I  found  it  flowing 

in  the  desert, 
Nor  the  value  of  a  friend  till  we  met  in  a  land  that  was 

crowded  and  lonely. 

The  multitude  of  mankind  had  bewildered  me  and  oppressed 

me, 
And  I  complained  to  God,  Why  hast  thou  made  the  world 

so  wide? 

But  when  my  friend  came  the  wideness  of  the  world  had  no 

more  terror, 
Because  we  were  glad  together  among  men  to  whom  we  were 

strangers. 

363 


364  WAYFARING  PSALMS 

It  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  reading  a  book  in  a  foreign 

language, 
And  suddenly  I  came  upon  a  page  written  in  the  tongue  of 

my  childhood: 

This  was  the  gentle  heart  of  my  friend  who  quietly  under- 
stood me, 

The  open  and  loving  heart  whose  meaning  was  clear  without 
a  word. 

0  thou   great    Companion  who  carest  for  all  thy  pilgrims 

and  strangers, 

1  thank  thee  heartily  for  the  comfort  of  a  comrade  on  the 

distant  road. 


THE  WELCOME  TENT  365 


THE   WELCOME   TENT 

THIS  is  the  thanksgiving  of  the  weary, 
The  song  of  him  that  is  ready  to  rest. 

It  is  good  to  be  glad  when  the  day  is  declining, 
And  the  setting  of  the  sun  is  like  a  word  of  peace. 

The  stars  look  kindly  on  the  close  of  a  journey, 

And  the  tent  says  welcome  when  the  day's  march  is  done. 

For  now  is  the  time  of  the  laying  down  of  burdens, 

And  the  cool  hour  cometh  to  them  that  have  borne  the  heat. 

I  have  rejoiced  greatly  in  labour  and  adventure; 

My  heart  hath  been  enlarged  in  the  spending  of  my  strength. 

Now  it  is  all  gone,  yet  I  am  not  impoverished, 
For  thus  only  I  inherit  the  treasure  of  repose. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that   teacheth  my   fingers   to   loosen, 
And  cooleth  my  feet  with  water  after  the  dust  of  the  way. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  giveth  me  hunger  at  nightfall, 
And  filleth  my  evening  cup  with  the  wine  of  good  cheer. 


366  WAYFARING   PSALMS 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  maketh  me  happy  to  be  quiet, 
Even  as  a  child  that  cometh  softly  to  his  mother's  lap. 

O  God,  thy  strength  is  never  worn  away  with  labour: 

But  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  weary  and  receive  thy  gift  of  rest. 


THE   GREAT   CITIES  367 


THE   GREAT   CITIES 

How  wonderful  are  the  cities  that  man  hath  builded: 
Their  walls  are  compacted  of  heavy  stones, 
And  their  lofty  towers  rise  above  the  tree-tops. 

Rome,  Jerusalem,  Cairo,  Damascus, — 
Venice,  Constantinople,  Moscow,  Pekin, — 
London,  New  York,  Berlin,  Paris,  Vienna, — 

These  are  the  names  of  mighty  enchantments, 
They  have  called  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
They  have  secretly  summoned  a  host  of  servants. 

They  shine  from  far  sitting  beside  great  waters, 
They  are  proudly  enthroned  upon  high  hills, 
They  spread  out  their  splendour  along  the  rivers. 

Yet  are  they  all  the  work  of  small  patient  fingers, 

Their  strength  is  in  the  hand  of  man, 

He  hath  woven  his  flesh  and  blood  into  their  glory. 

The  cities  are  scattered  over  the  world  like  ant-hills, 
Every  one  of  them  is  full  of  trouble  and  toil, 
And  their  makers  run  to  and  fro  within  them. 


368  WAYFARING  PSALMS 

Abundance  of  riches  is  laid  up  in  their  treasuries, 

But  they  are  tormented  with  the  fear  of  want, 

The  cry  of  the  poor  in  their  streets  is  exceeding  bitter. 

Their  inhabitants  are  driven  by  blind  perturbations, 

They  whirl  sadly  in  the  fever  of  haste, 

Seeking  they  know  not  what,  they  pursue  it  fiercely. 

The  air  is  heavy-laden  with  their  breathing, 

The  sound  of  their  coming  and  going  is  never  still, 

Even  in  the  night  I  hear  them  whispering  and  crying. 

Beside  every  ant-hill  I  behold  a  monster  crouching: 

This  is  the  ant-lion  Death, 

He  thrusteth  forth  his  tongue  and  the  people  perish. 

O  God  of  wisdom  thou  hast  made  the  country: 
Why  hast  thou  suffered  man  to  make  the  town? 

Then  God  answered,  Surely  I  am  the  maker  of  man: 
And  in  the  heart  of  man  I  have  set  the  city. 


THE  FRIENDLY  TREES  369 


THE   FRIENDLY   TREES 

I  WILL  sing  of  the  bounty  of  the  big  trees, 

They  are  the  green  tents  of  the  Almighty, 

He  hath  set  them  up  for  comfort  and  for  shelter. 

Their  cords  hath  he  knotted  in  the  earth, 
He  hath  driven  their  stakes  securely, 
Their  roots  take  hold  of  the  rocks  like  iron. 

He  sendeth  into  their  bodies  the  sap  of  life, 
They  lift  themselves  lightly  toward  the  heavens. 
They  rejoice  in  the  broadening  of  their  branches. 

Their  leaves  drink  in  the  sunlight  and  the  air, 
They  talk  softly  together  when  the  breeze  bloweth, 
Their  shadow  in  the  noon-day  is  full  of  coolness. 

The  tall  palm-trees  of  the  plain  are  rich  in  fruit, 

While  the  fruit  ripeneth  the  flower  unfoldeth, 

The  beauty  of  their  crown  is  renewed  on  high  for  ever. 

The  cedars  of  Lebanon  are  fed  by  the  snow, 

Afar  on  the  mountain  they  grow  like  giants, 

In  their  layers  of  shade  a  thousand  years  are  sighing. 


370  WAYFARING  PSALMS 

How  fair  are  the  trees  that  befriend  the  home  of  man, 

The  oak,  and  the  terebinth,  and  the  sycamore, 

The  broad-leaved  fig-tree  and  the  delicate  silvery  olive. 

In  them  the  Lord  is  loving  to  his  little  birds, 
The  linnets  and  the  finches  and  the  nightingales, 
They  people  his  pavilions  with  nests  and  with  music. 

The  cattle  also  are  very  glad  of  a  great  tree, 

They  chew  the  cud  beneath  it  while  the  sun  is  burning, 

And  there  the  panting  sheep  lie  down  around  their  shepherd. 

He  that  planteth  a  tree  is  a  servant  of  God, 
He  provideth  a  kindness  for  many  generations, 
And  faces  that  he  hath  not  seen  shall  bless  him. 

Lord,  when  my  spirit  shall  return  to  thee, 

At  the  foot  of  a  friendly  tree  let  my  body  be  buried, 

That  this  dust  may  rise  and  rejoice  among  the  branches. 


THE  BROKEN  SWORD  371 


THE   BROKEN   SWORD 

MINE  enemies  have  prevailed  against  me,  O  God: 
Thou  hast  led  me  deep  into  their  ambush. 

They  surround  me  with  a  hedge  of  spears, 
And  the  sword  in  my  hand  is  broken. 

My  friends  also  have  forsaken  my  side: 
From  a  safe  place  they  look  upon  me  with  pity. 

My  heart  is  like  water  poured  upon  the  ground, 
And  I  have  come  alone  to  the  place  of  surrender. 

To  thee,  to  thee  only  will  I  give  up  my  sword, — 
The  sword  which  was  broken  in  thy  service. 

Thou  hast  required  me  to  suffer  for  thy  cause: 
In  my  defeat  thy  will  is  victorious. 

O  my  King,  show  me  thy  face  shining  in  the  dark, 
While  I  drink  the  loving-cup  of  death  to  thy  glory. 


372  WAYFARING  PSALMS 


THE   UNSEEN   ALTAR 

MAN  the  maker  of  cities  is  also  a  builder  of  altars, 
He  setteth  tables  for  the  gods  among  his  habitations. 

He  bringeth  the  beauty  of  the  rocks  to  enrich  them: 
Marble  and  alabaster,  porphyry,  jade  and  jasper. 

He  cometh  with  costly  gifts  to  offer  an  oblation, 
And  with  the  fairest  of  his  flock  to  purchase  favour. 

Around  the  many  altars  I  hear  strange  music  arising, 
Loud  lamentations  and  shouting  and  singing  and  wailing. 

I  perceive  also  the  pain  and  terror  of  their  sacrifices, 
And  the  tears  and  the  blood  staining  the  white  marble. 

O  my  God,  these  are  the  altars  of  ignorance: 

They  are  built  by  thy  children  who  do  not  know  thee. 

Surely  thou  wilt  have  pity  upon  them  and  teach  them: 
Hast  thou  not  prepared  for  them  a  table  of  peace? 

Then  the  Lord  mercifully  sent  his  angel  forth  to  lead  me, 
And  I  came  through  the  courts  of  the  temple  to  the  holy  of 
holies. 


THE   UNSEEN  ALTAR  373 

Here  the  multitudes  are  kneeling  in  the  silence  of  the  spirit, 
They  are  kneeling  at  the  unseen  altar  of  the  lowly  heart. 

Here  is  plentiful  forgiveness  for  the  souls  that  are  forgiving, 
And  the  benediction  falleth  upon  all  who  pray  in  love. 

Surely  this  is  the  altar  where  the  penitent  find  pardon: 
And  the  priest  who  stands  beside  it  is  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  God. 


374  WAYFARING  PSALMS 


THE   PATHWAY   OF   RIVERS 

THE  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water, 

They  are  wonderful  in  the  renewal  of  their  strength, 

He  poureth  them  out  from  a  hidden  fountain. 

They  are  born  among  the  hills  in  the  high  places, 

Their  cradle  is  in  the  bosom  of  the  rocks, 

The  mountain  is  their  mother  and  the  forest  is  their  father. 

They  are  nourished  among  the  long  grasses, 
They  receive  the  tribute  of  a  thousand  springs, 
The  rain  and  the  snow  provide  their  inheritance. 

They  are  glad  to  be  gone  from  their  birthplace, 
With  a  joyful  noise  they  hasten  away, 
They  are  going  for  ever  and  never  departed. 

Yet  the  courses  of  the  rivers  are  all  appointed: 

They  roar  loudly  but  they  follow  the  road, 

For  the  finger  of  God  hath  marked  their  pathway. 

The  rivers  of  Damascus  rejoice  among  their  gardens: 
The  great  river  of  Egypt  is  proud  of  his  ships: 
The  Jordan  is  lost  in  the  Lake  of  Bitterness. 


THE  PATHWAY  OF  RIVERS  375 

Surely  the  Lord  guideth  them  every  one  in  his  wisdom, 
In  the  end  he  gathereth  all  their  drops  on  high, 
And  sendeth  them  forth  again  in  the  clouds  of  mercy. 

O  my  God,  my  life  floweth  away  like  a  river: 
Guide  me,  I  beseech  thee,  in  a  pathway  of  good: 
Let  me  run  in  blessing  to  my  rest  in  thee. 


376  WAYFARING  PSALMS 


THE   GLORY   OF  RUINS 

THE  lizard  rested  on  the  rock  while  I  sat  among  the  ruins, 
And  the  pride  of  man  was  like  a  vision  of  the  night. 

Lo,  the  lords  of  the  city  have  disappeared  into  darkness, 
The  ancient  wilderness  hath  swallowed  up  all  their  work. 

There  is  nothing  left  of  the  city  but  a  heap  of  fragments; 
The  bones  of  a  vessel  broken  by  the  storm. 

Behold  the  waves  of  the  desert  wait  hungrily  for  man's  dwell- 
ings, 
And  the  tides  of  desolation  return  upon  his  toil. 

All  that  he  hath  painfully  built  up  is  shaken  down  in  a  moment, 
The  memory  of  his  glory  is  buried  beneath  the  billows  of  sand. 

Then  a  voice  said,  Look  again  upon  the  ruins, 
These  broken  arches  have  taught  generations  to  build. 

Moreover  the  name  of  this  city  shall  be  remembered, 
For  here  a  poor  man  spoke  a  word  that  shall  not  die. 

This  is  the  glory  that  is  stronger  than  the  desert; 
God  hath  given  eternity  to  the  thought  of  man. 


THE  TRIBE   OF  THE  HELPERS  377 


THE  TRIBE   OF   THE   HELPERS 

THE  ways  of  the  world  are  full  of  haste  and  turmoil: 
I  will  sing  of  the  tribe  of  the  helpers  who  travel  in  peace. 

He  that  turneth  from  the  road  to  rescue  another, 
Turneth  toward  his  goal: 

He  shall  arrive  in  time  by  the  foot-path  of  mercy, 
God  will  be  his  guide. 

He  that  taketh  up  the  burden  of  the  fainting, 
Lighteneth  his  own  load: 

The  Almighty  will  put  his  arms  underneath  him, 
He  shall  lean  upon  the  Lord. 

He  that  speaketh  comfortable  words  to  mourners, 
Healeth  his  own  hurt: 

In  the  time  of  grief  they  will  come  to  his  remembrance, 
God  will  use  them  for  balm. 

He  that  careth  for  a  wounded  brother, 
Watcheth  not  alone: 

There  are  three  in  the  darkness  together, 
And  the  third  is  the  Lord. 

Blessed  is  the  way  of  the  helpers, 
The  companions  of  the  Christ. 


378  WAYFARING  PSALMS 


THE    GOOD   TEACHER 

THE  Lord  is  my  teacher, 
I  shall  not  lose  the  way. 

He  leadeth  me  in  the  lowly  path  of  learning, 
He  prepare th  a  lesson  for  me  every  day; 
He  bringeth  me  to  the  clear  fountains  of  instruction, 
Little  by  little  he  showeth  me  the  beauty  of  truth. 

The  world  is  a  great  book  that  he  hath  written, 
He  turneth  the  leaves  for  me  slowly; 
They  are  all  inscribed  with  images  and  letters, 
He  poureth  light  on  the  pictures  and  the  words. 

He  taketh  me  by  the  hand  to  the  hill-top  of  vision, 
And  my  soul  is  glad  when  I  perceive  his  meaning; 
In  the  valley  also  he  walketh  beside  me, 
In  the  dark  places  he  whispereth  to  my  heart. 

Even  though  my  lesson  be  hard  it  is  not  hopeless, 
For  the  Lord  is  patient  with  his  slow  scholar; 
He  will  wait  awhile  for  my  weakness, 
And  help  me  to  read  the  truth  through  tears. 


THE   CAMP-FIRES   OF  MY  FRIEND          379 


THE    CAMP-FIRES    OF   MY   FRIEND 

THOU  hast  taken  me  into  thy  tent  of  the  world,  O  God, 
Beneath  thy  blue  canopy  I  have  found  shelter, 
Therefore  thou  wilt  not  deny  me  the  right  of  a  guest. 

Naked  and  poor  I  arrived  at  thy  door  before  sunset: 
Thou  hast  refreshed  me  with  beautiful  bowls  of  milk, 
As  a  great  chief  thou  hast  set  forth  food  in  abundance. 

I  have  loved  the  daily  delights  of  thy  dwelling, 
Thy  moon  and  thy  stars  have  lighted  me  to  my  bed, 
In  the  morning  I  have  made  merry  with  thy  servants. 

Surely  thou  wilt  not  send  me  away  in  the  darkness? 
There  the  enemy  Death  is  lying  in  wait  for  my  soul: 
Thou  art  the  host  of  my  life  and  I  claim  thy  protection. 

Then  the  Lord  of  the  tent  of  the  world  made  answer: 

The  right  of  a  guest  endureth  for  a  certain  time, 

After  three  days  and  three  nights  cometh  the  day  of  departure. 

Yet  hearken  to  me  since  thou  fearest  to  go  in  the  dark: 
I  will  make  with  thee  a  new  covenant  of  hospitality, 
Behold  I  will  come  unto  thee  as  a  stranger  and  be  thy  guest. 


380  WAYFARING  PSALMS 

Poor  and  needy  will  I  come  that  thou  mayest  entertain  me, 
Meek  and  lowly  will  I  come  that  thou  mayest  find  a  friend, 
With  mercy  and  with  truth  will  I  come  to  give  thee  comfort. 

Therefore  open  thy  heart  to  me  and  bid  me  welcome, 
In  this  tent  of  the  world  I  will  be  thy  brother  of  the  bread. 
And  when  thou  farest  forth  I  will  be  thy  companion  for  ever. 

Then  my  soul  rested  in  the  word  of  the  Lord: 

And  I  saw  that  the  curtains  of  the  world  were  shaken, 

But  I  looked  beyond  them  to  the  stars, 

The  camp-fires  of  my  Eternal  Friend. 


THE   HOUSE    OF   RIMMON 

DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


BENHADAD: 

REZON: 

SABALLIDIN: 

HAZAEL       \ 

IZDUBHAR    V 

RAKHAZ       ) 

SHUMAKIM: 

ELISHA: 

NAAMAN: 

RUAHMAH: 

TSARPI: 

KHAMMA 

NUBTA 

Soldiers,  Servants,  Citizens,  etc.,  etc. 
SCENE:  Damascus  and  the  Mountains  of  Samaria. 
TIME:    850  B.  C. 


King  of  Damascus. 

High  Priest  of  the  House  of  Rimmon. 

A  Noble. 

Courtiers. 

The  King's  Fool. 

Prophet  of  Israel. 

Captain  of  the  Armies  of  Damascus. 

A  Captive  Maid  of  Israel. 

Wife  to  Naaman. 


>     Attendants  of  Tsarpi. 


382 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

Night,  in  the  garden  of  NAAMAN  at  Damascus.  At  the  left  the 
palace,  with  softly  gleaming  lights  and  music  coming  from  the 
open  latticed  windows.  The  garden  is  full  of  oleanders,  roses, 
pomegranates,  abundance  of  crimson  flowers;  the  air  is  heavy 
with  their  fragrance:  a  fountain  at  the  right  is  plashing  gently: 
behind  it  is  an  arbour  covered  with  vines.  Near  the  centre  of 
the  garden  stands  a  small,  hideous  image  of  the  god  Rimmon. 
Beyond  the  arbour  rises  the  lofty  square  tower  of  the  House  of 
Rimmon,  which  casts  a  shadow  from  the  moon  across  the  gar- 
den. The  background  is  a  wide,  hilly  landscape,  with  the 
snow-clad  summits  of  Mount  Hermon  in  the  distance.  Enter 
by  the  palace  door,  the  lady  TSARPI,  robed  in  red  and  gold, 
and  followed  by  her  maids,  KHAMMA  and  NUBTA.  She  re- 
mains on  the  terrace:  they  go  down  into  the  garden,  looking 
about,  and  returning  to  her. 

KHAMMA: 

There's  no  one  here;  the  garden  is  asleep. 
NUBTA: 

The  flowers  are  nodding,  all  the  birds  abed, — 

Nothing  awake  except  the  watchful  stars! 
383 


384  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON        [ACTI,SC.I 

KHAMMA: 

The  stars  are  sentinels  discreet  and  mute: 
How  many  things  they  know  and  never  tell! 

TSARPI:     [Impatiently.] 

Unlike  the  stars,  how  many  things  you  tell 

And  do  not  know!     When  comes  your  master  home? 
NUBTA: 

Lady,  his  armour-bearer  brought  us  word, — 

At  moonset,  not  before. 

TSARPI: 

He  haunts  the  camp 

And  leaves  me  much  alone;  yet  I  can  pass 
The  time  of  absence  not  unhappily, 
If  I  but  know  the  time  of  his  return. 
An  hour  of  moonlight  yet!     Khamma,  my  mirror! 
These  curls  are  ill  arranged,  this  veil  too  low, — 
So, — that  is  better,  careless  maids!    Withdraw, — 
But  bring  me  word  if  Naaman  appears! 

KHAMMA: 

Mistress,  have  no  concern;  for  when  we  hear 
The  clatter  of  his  horse  along  the  street, 
We'll  run  this  way  and  lead  your  dancers  down 
With  song  and  laughter, — you  shall  know  in  time. 

[Exeunt   KHAMMA    and   NUBTA    laughing,    TSARPI 
descends  the  steps.] 


ACTI,SC.I]        THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  385 

TSARPI: 

My  guest  is  late;  but  he  will  surely  come! 
The  man  who  burns  to  drain  the  cup  of  love, — 
The  priest  whose  greed  of  glory  never  fails, — 
Both,  both  have  need  of  me,  and  he  will  come. 
And  I,— what  do  I  need?    Why  everything 
That  helps  my  beauty  to  a  higher  throne; 
All  that  a  priest  can  promise,  all  a  man 
Can  give,  and  all  a  god  bestow,  I  need: 
This  may  a  woman  win,  and  this  will  I. 

[Enter  REZON  quietly  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 
He  stands  behind  TSARPI  and  listens,  smiling,  to  her 
last  words.  Then  he  drops  his  mantle  of  leopard- 
skin,  and  lifts  his  high  priest's  rod  of  bronze,  shaped 
at  one  end  like  a  star.] 
REZON: 

Tsarpi! 
TSARPI:     [Bowing  low  before  him.] 

The  mistress  of  the  house  of  Naaman 
Salutes  the  master  of  the  House  of  Rimmon. 
REZON: 

Rimmon  receives  you  with  his  star  of  peace, 
For  you  were  once  a  handmaid  of  his  altar. 

[He  lowers  the  star-point  of  the  rod,  which  glows  for  a 

moment  with  rosy  light  above  her  head.] 
And  now  the  keeper  of  his  temple  asks 
The  welcome  of  the  woman  for  the  man. 


386  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON        [ACTI,SC.I 

TSARPI:     [Giving  him  her  hand,  but  holding  off  his  embrace] 
No  more, — till  I  have  heard  what  brings  you  here 
By  night,  within  the  garden  of  the  one 

Who  scorns  you  most  and  fears  you  least  in  all 

Damascus 
REZON: 

Trust  me,  I  repay  his  scorn 

With  double  hatred, — Naaman,  the  man 

Who  stands  against  the  nobles  and  the  priests, 

This  powerful  fool,  this  impious  devotee 

Of  liberty,  who  loves  the  people  more 

Then  he  reveres  the  city's  ancient  god: 

This  frigid  husband  who  sets  you  below 

His  dream  of  duty  to  a  horde  of  slaves: 

This  man  I  hate,  and  I  will  humble  him. 
TSARPI: 

I  think  I  hate  him  too.    He  stands  apart 

From  me,  ev'n  while  he  holds  me  in  his  arms, 

By  something  that  I  cannot  understand. 

He  swears  he  loves  his  wife  next  to  his  honour! 

Next?    That's  too  low!    I  will  be  first  or  nothing. 
REZON: 

With  me  you  are  the  first,  the  absolute! 

When  you  and  I  have  triumphed  you  shall  reign; 

And  you  and  I  will  bring  this  hero  down. 
TSARPI: 

But  how?    For  he  is  strong. 


ACTI,SC.I]        THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  387 

REZON: 

By  this,  the  hand 

Of  Tsarpi;  and  by  this,  the  rod  of  Rimmon. 
TSARPI: 

Your  plan? 

REZON: 

You  know  the  host  of  Nineveh 
Is  marching  now  against  us.     Envoys  come 
To  bid  us  yield  before  a  hopeless  war. 
Our  king  is  weak:  the  nobles,  being  rich, 
Would  purchase  peace  to  make  them  richer  still: 
Only  the  people  and  the  soldiers,  led 
By  Naaman,  would  fight  for  liberty. 
Blind  fools!    To-day  the  envoys  came  to  me, 
And  talked  with  me  in  secret.     Promises, 
Great  promises!    For  every  noble  house 
That  urges  peace,  a  noble  recompense: 
The  King,  submissive,  kept  in  royal  state 
And  splendour:  most  of  all,  honour  and  wealth 
Shall  crown  the  House  of  Rimmon,  and  his  priest, — 
Yea,  and  his  priestess!    For  we  two  will  rise 
Upon  the  city's  fall.     The  common  folk 
Shall  suffer;  Naaman  shall  sink  with  them 
In  wreck;  but  I  shall  rise,  and  you  shall  rise 
Above  me!    You  shall  climb,  through  incense-smoke, 
And  days  of  pomp,  and  nights  of  revelry, 


388  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON        [ACTI,SC.I 

Unto  the  topmost  room  in  Rimmon's  tower, 

The  secret,  lofty  room,  the  couch  of  bliss, 

And  the  divine  embraces  of  the  god. 
TSARPI:     [Throwing  out  her  arms  in  exultation.} 

All,  all  I  wish!    What  must  I  do  for  this? 
REZON: 

Turn  Naaman  away  from  thoughts  of  war. 
TSARPI: 

But  if  I  fail?    His  will  is  proof  against 

The  lure  of  kisses  and  the  wile  of  tears. 
REZON: 

Whe  e  woman  fails,  woman  and  priest  succeed. 

Before  the  King  decides  he  must  consult 

The  oracle  of  Rimmon.     This  my  hands 

Prepare, — and  you  shall  read  the  signs  prepared 

In  words  of  fear  to  melt  the  brazen  heart 

Of  Naaman. 

TSARPI: 

But  if  it  flame  instead  ? 

REZON: 

I  know  a  way  to  quench  that  flame.     The  cup, 
The  parting  cup  your  hand  shall  give  to  him! 
What  if  the  curse  of  Rimmon  should  infect 
That  sacred  wine  with  poison,  secretly 
To  work  within  his  veins,  week  after  week 
Corrupting  all  the  currents  of  his  blood, 


ACTI,SC.I]        THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  389 

Dimming  his  eyes,  wasting  his  flesh?     What  then? 
Would  he  prevail  in  war?     Would  he  come  back 
To  glory,  or  to  shame  ?     What  think  you  ? 

TSARPI: 

I?— 
I  do  not  think ;  I  only  do  my  part. 

But  can  the  gods  bless  this? 

REZON: 

The  gods  can  bless 

Whatever  they  decree;  their  will  makes  right; 

And  this  is  for  the  glory  of  the  House 

Of  Rimmon, — and  for  thee,  my  queen.     Come,  come! 

The  night  grows  dark:  we'll  perfect  our  alliance. 

[REZON  draws  her  with  him,  embracing  her,  through 
the  shadows  of  the  garden.  RUAKMAH,  who  has 
been  sleeping  in  the  arbour,  has  been  awakened  dur- 
ing the  dialogue,  and  has  been  dimly  visible  in  her 
white  dress,  behind  the  vines.  She  parts  them  and 
comes  out,  pushing  back  her  long,  dark  hair  from 
her  temples.} 
RUAHMAH: 

What  have  I  heard?     O  God,  what  shame  is  this 

Plotted  beneath  Thy  pure  and  silent  stars! 

Was  it  for  this  that  I  was  brought  away 

A  captive  from  the  hills  of  Israel 

To  serve  the  heathen  in  a  land  of  lies  ? 

Ah,  treacherous,  shameful  priest!     Ah,  shameless  wife 


390  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON        [ACT  i,  sc.  i 

Of  one  too  noble  to  suspect  thy  guilt! 

The  very  greatness  of  his  generous  heart 

Betrays  him  to  their  hands.     What  can  I  do! 

Nothing, — a  slave, — hated  and  mocked  by  all 

My  fellow-slaves!     O  bitter  prison-life! 

I  smother  in  this  black,  betraying  air 

Of  lust  and  luxury;  I  faint  beneath 

The  shadow  of  this  House  of  Rimmon.     God 

Have  mercy!     Lead  me  out  to  Israel. 

To  Israel! 

[Music  and  laughter  heard  within  the  palace.  The 
doors  fly  open  and  a  flood  of  men  and  women,  dancers, 
players,  flushed  with  wine,  dishevelled,  pour  down 
the  steps,  KHAMMA  and  NUBTA  with  them.  They 
crown  the  image  with  roses  and  dance  around  it. 
RUAHMAH  is  discovered  crouching  beside  the  arbour. 
They  drag  her  out  beside  the  image.] 

NUBTA: 

Look!    Here's  the  Hebrew  maid, — 

She's  homesick;  let  us  comfort  her! 
KHAMMA:     [They  put  their  arms  around  her.] 

Yes,  dancing  is  the  cure  for  homesickness. 

We'll  make  her  dance. 
RUAHMAH:     [She  slips  away.] 

I  pray  you,  let  me  go! 

I  cannot  dance,  I  do  not  know  your  measures. 


ACTI,SC.I]        THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  391 

KHAMMA: 

Then  sing  for  us, — a  song  of  Israel! 
RUAHMAH: 

How  can  I  sing  the  songs  of  Israel 
In  this  strange  country?     O  my  heart  would  break! 
A  SERVANT: 

A  stubborn  and  unfriendly  maid*!     We'll  whip  her. 

[ They  circle  around  her,  striking  her  with  rose-branches; 
she  sinks  to  her  knees,  covering  her  face  with  her  bare 
arms,  which  bleed.} 
NUBTA: 

Look,  look !    She  kneels  to  Rimmon,  she  is  tamed. 
RUAHMAH:    [Springing  up  and  lifting  her  arms.] 
Nay,  not  to  this  dumb  idol,  but  to  Him 
Who  made  Orion  and  the  seven  stars! 
ALL: 

She  raves, — she  mocks  at  Rimmon!    Punish  her! 
The  fountain!    Wash  her  blasphemy  away! 

[They  push  her  toward  the  fountain,  laughing  and 
shouting.  In  the  open  door  of  the  palace  NAAMAN 
appears,  dressed  in  blue  and  silver,  bareheaded  and 
unarmed.  He  comes  to  the  top  of  the  steps  and  stands 
for  a  moment,  astonished  and  angry.] 
NAAMAN: 

Silence!    What  drunken  rout  is  this?    Begone, 


392  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON        [ACTI.SC.X 

Ye  barking  dogs  and  mewing  cats!     Out,  all! 
Poor  child,  what  have  they  done  to  thee? 

[Exeunt  all  except  RUAHMAH,  who  stands  with  her  face 
covered  by  her  hands.    NAAMAN  comes  to  her,  laying 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder.} 
RUAHMAH:    [Looking  up  in  his  face.] 

Nothing, 

My  lord  and  master!     They  have  harmed  me  not. 
NAAMAN:  [Touching  her  arm.] 
Dost  call  this  nothing? 

RUAHMAH: 

Since  my  lord  is  come! 

NAAMAN: 

I  do  not  know  thy  face, — who  art  thou,  child? 
RUAHMAH: 

The  handmaid  of  thy  wife. 

NAAMAN: 

Whence  comest  thou? 

Thy  voice  is  like  thy  mistress,  but  thy  looks 

Have  something  foreign.     Tell  thy  name,  thy  land. 
RUAHMAH: 

Ruahmah  is  my  name,  a  captive  maid, 

The  daughter  of  a  prince  in  Israel, —  - 

Where  once,  in  olden  days,  I  saw  my  lord 

Ride  through  our  highlands,  when  Samaria 

Was  allied  with  Damascus  to  defeat 

Our  common  foe. 


ACTI,SC.I]        THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  393 

NAAMAN: 

And  thou  rememberest  this  ? 
RUAHMAH: 

As  clear  as  yesterday!    Master,  I  saw 

Thee  riding  on  a  snow-white  horse  beside 

Our  king;  and  all  we  joyful  little  maids 

Strewed  boughs  of  palm  along  the  victors'  way; 

For  you  had  driven  out  the  enemy, 

Broken;  and  both  our  lands  were  friends  and  free. 

NAAMAN:  [Sadly.] 

Well,  they  are  past,  those  noble  days!    The  days 

When  nations  would  imperil  all  to  keep 

Their  liberties,  are  only  memories  now. 

The  common  cause  is  losl^ — and  thou  art  brought, 

The  captive  of  some  mercenary  raid, 

Some  skirmish  cf  a  gold-begotten  war, 

To  serve  within  my  house.     Dost  thou  fare  well  ? 

RUAHMAH: 

Master,  thou  seest. 

NAAMAN: 

Yes,  I  see!    My  child, 
Why  do  they  hate  thee  so  ? 

RUAHMAH: 

I  do  not  knoWj 
Unless  because  I  will  not  bow  to  Rimmon. 


394  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON        [ACTI,SC.I 

NAAMAN: 

Thou  needest  not.     I  fear  he  is  a  god 

Who  pities  not  his  people,  will  not  save. 

My  heart  is  sick  with  doubt  of  him.     But  thou 

Shalt  hold  thy  faith, — I  care  not  what  it  is, — 

Worship  thy  god;  but  keep  thy  spirit  free. 

[He  takes  the  amulet  from  his  neck  and  gives  it  to  her.] 

Here,  take  this  chain  and  wear  it  with  my  seal, 

None  shall  molest  the  maid  who  carries  this. 

Thou  hast  found  favour  in  thy  master's  eyes; 

Hast  thou  no  other  gift  to  ask  of  me? 
RUAHMAH:  [Earnestly.] 

My  lord,  I  do  entreat  thee  not  to  go 

To-morrow  to  the  council.     Seek  the  King 

And  speak  with  him  in  secret;   but  avoid 

The  audience-hall. 
NAAMAN: 

Why,  what  is  this?     Thy  wits 

Are  wandering.     My  honour  is  engaged 

To  speak  for  war,  to  lead  in  war  against 

The  Assyrian  Bull  and  save  Damascus. 
RUAHMAH:   [With  confused  earnestness.] 

Then,  lord,  if  thou  must  go,  I  pray  thee  speak, — 

I  know  not  how, — but  so  that  all  must  hear. 

With  magic  of  unanswerable  words 

Persuade  thy  foes.     Yet  watch, — beware, — 


ACT  i,  sc.  i]        THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  395 

NAAMAN: 

Of  what? 

RUAHMAH:  [Turning  aside.] 

I  am  entangled  in  my  speech, — no  light, — 
How  shall  I  tell  him  ?    He  will  not  believe. 
O  my  dear  lord,  thine  enemies  are  they 
Of  thine  own  house.     I  pray  thee  to  beware, — 
Beware, — of  Rimmon! 

NAAMAN: 

Child,  thy  words  are  wild; 
Thy  troubles  have  bewildered  all  thy  brain. 
Go,  now,  and  fret  no  more;  but  sleep,  and  dream 
Of  Israel!     For  thou  shalt  see  thy  home 
Among  the  hills  again. 

RUAHMAH: 

Master,  good-night. 

And  may  thy  slumber  be  as  sweet  and  deep 
As  if  thou  camped  at  snowy  Hermon's  foot, 
Amid  the  music  of  his  waterfalls. 
There  friendly  oak-trees  bend  their  boughs  above 
The  weary  head,  pillowed  on  earth's  kind  breast, 
And  unpolluted  breezes  lightly  breathe 
A  song  of  sleep  among  the  murmuring  leaves. 
There  the  big  stars  draw  nearer,  and  the  sun 
Looks  forth  serene,  undimmed  by  city's  mirk 
Or  smoke  of  idol-temples,  to  behold 


396  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON       [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

The  waking  wonder  of  the  wide-spread  world. 
There  life  renews  itself  with  every  morn 
In  purest  joy  of  living.     May  the  Lord 
Deliver  thee,  dear  master,  from  the  nets 
Laid  for  thy  feet,  and  lead  thee  out,  along 
The  open  path,  beneath  the  open  sky! 

[Exit  RUAHMAH:    NAAMAN  stands  looking  after  her.] 


SCENE  II 
TIME:     The  following  morning. 

The  audience-hall  in  BENHADAD'S  palace.  The  sides  of  the  hall 
are  lined  with  lofty  columns:  the  back  opens  toward  the  city, 
with  descending  steps:  the  House  of  Rimmon  with  its  high 
tower  is  seen  in  the  background.  The  throne  is  at  the  right  in 
front:  opposite  is  the  royal  door  of  entrance,  guarded  by  four 
tall  sentinels.  Enter  at  the  rear  between  the  columns,  RAKHAZ, 
SABALLIDIN,  HAZAEL,  IZDUBHAR. 
IZDUBHAR:  [An  excited  old  man.] 

The  city  is  all  in  a  turmoil.     It  boils  like  a  pot  of  lentils. 
The  people  are  foaming  and  bubbling  round  and  round 
like  beans  in  the  pottage. 
HAZAEL:  [A  lean,  crafty  man.] 
Fear  is  a  hot  fire. 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  397 

RAKHAZ:  [A  fat,  pompous  man.] 

Well  may  they  fear,  for  the  Assyrians  are  not  three  days 
distant.      They  are  blazing  along  like  a  waterspout 
to  chop  Damascus  down  like  a  pitcher  of  spilt  milk. 
SABALLIDIN:  [Young  and  frank.] 

Cannot  Naaman  drive  them  back? 
RAKHAZ:  [Puffing  and  blowing.] 

Ho!    Naaman?    Where  have  you  been  living?     Naaman 
is  a  broken  reed  whose  claws  have  been  cut.     Build  no 
hopes  on  that  foundation,  for  it  will  run  away  and  leave 
you  all  adrift  in  the  conflagration. 
SABALLIDIN: 

He  clatters  like  a  windmill.    What  would  he  say,  Hazael  ? 
HAZAEL: 

Naaman  can  do  nothing  without  the  command  of  the  King; 
and  the  King  fears  to  order  the  army  to  march  without 
the  approval  of  the.  gods.     The  High  Priest  is  against  it. 
The  House  of  Rimmon  is  for  peace  with  Asshur. 
RAKHAZ: 

Yes,  and  all  the  nobles  are  for  peace.  We  are  the  men 
whose  wisdom  lights  the  rudder  that  upholds  the  chariot 
of  state.  Would  we  be  rich  if  we  were  not  wise?  Do 
we  not  know  better  than  the  rabble  what  medicine  will 
silence  this  fire  that  threatens  to  drown  us? 
IZDUBHAR: 

But  if  the  Assyrians  come,  we  shall  all  perish;   they  will 
despoil  us  all. 


398  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON       [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

HAZAEL: 

Not  us,  my  lord,  only  the  common  people.  The  envoys 
have  offered  favourable  terms  to  the  priests,  and  the 
nobles,  and  the  King.  No  palace,  no  temple,  shall  be 
plundered.  Only  the  shops,  and  the  markets,  and  the 
houses  of  the  multitude  shall  be  given  up  to  the  Bull. 
He  will  eat  his  supper  from  the  pot  of  lentils,  not  from 
our  golden  plate. 
RAKHAZ: 

Yes,  and  all  who  speak  for  peace  in  the  council  shall  be 
enriched;  our  heads  shall  be  crowned  with  seats  of  hon- 
our in  the  procession  of  the  Assyrian  king.  He  needs 
wise  counsellors  to  help  him  guide  the  ship  of  empire 
onto  the  solid  rock  of  prosperity.  You  must  be  with  us, 
my  lords  Izdubhar  and  Saballidin,  and  let  the  stars  of 
your  wisdom  roar  loudly  for  peace. 
IZDUBHAR: 

He  talks  like  a  tablet  read  upside  down, — a  wild  ass  bray- 
ing in  the  wilderness.    Yet  there  is  policy  in  his  words. 
SABALLIDIN: 

I  know  not.  Can  a  kingdom  live  without  a  people  or  an 
army?  If  we  let  the  Bull  in  to  sup  on  the  lentils,  will 
he  not  make  his  breakfast  in  our  vineyards  ? 

[Enter  other  courtiers  following  SHUMAKIM,  a  hump- 
backed jester,  in  blue,  green  and  red,  a  wreath  of  pop- 
pies around  his  neck  and  a  flagon  in  his  hand.  He 
walks  unsteadily,  and  stutters  in  his  speech.] 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]       THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  399 

HAZAEL: 

Here  is  Shumakim,  the  King's  fool,  with  his  legs  full  of 

last  night's  wine. 

SHUMAKIM:  [Balancing  himself  in  front  of  them  and  chuckling.] 
Wrong,  my  lords,  very  wrong !   This  is  not  last  night's  wine, 
but  a  draught  the  King's  physician  gave  me  this  morning 
for  a  cure.     It  sobers  me  amazingly!     I  know  you  all, 
my  lords:  any  fool  would  know  you.     You,  master,  are 
a  statesman;   and  you  are  a  politician;   and  you  are  a 
patriot. 
RAKHAZ: 

Am  I  a  statesman  ?     I  felt  something  of  the  kind  about  me. 
But  what  is  a  statesman? 

SHUMAKIM: 

A  politician  that  is  stuffed  with  big  words;  a  fat  man  in 
a  mask;  one  that  plays  a  solemn  tune  on  a  sackbut  full 
o'  wind. 
HAZAEL: 

And  what  is  a  politician? 
SHUMAKIM: 

A  statesman  that  has  dropped  his  mask  and  cracked  his 
sackbut.     Men  trust  him  for  what  he  is,  and  he  never 
deceives  them,  because  he  always  lies. 
IZDUBHAR: 

Why  do  you  call  me  a  patriot  ? 


400  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON       [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

SHUMAKIM: 

Because  you  know  what  is  good  for  you;   you  love  your 
country  as  you  love  your  pelf.     You  feel  for  the  com- 
mon people, — as  the  wolf  feels  for  the  sheep. 
SABALLIDIN: 

And  what  am  I? 
SHUMAKIM: 

A  fool,  master,  just  a  plain  fool ;  and  there  is  hope  of  thee 
for  that  reason.     Embrace  me,  brother,  and  taste  this; 
but  not  too  much, — it  will  intoxicate  thee  with  sobriety. 
[  The  hall  has  been  slowly  filling  with  courtiers  and 
soldiers;  a  crowd  of  people  begin  to  come  up  the  steps 
at  the  rear,  where  they  are  halt  d  by  a  chain  guarded 
by  servants  of  the  palace.     A  bell  tolls;  the  royal  door 
is  thrown  open;  the  aged  King  totters  across  the  hall 
and  takes  his  seat  on  the  throne  with  the  four  tall 
sentinels  standing  behind  him.     All  bow  down  sha- 
ding their  eyes  with  their  hands.} 
BENHADAD: 

The  hour  of  royal  audience  is  come. 

I'll  hear  the  envoys.     Are  my  counsellors 

At  hand?     Where  are  the  priests  of  Rimmon's  house? 

[Gongs  sound.     REZON  comes  in  from  the  side,  followed 

by  a  procession  of  priests  in  black  and  yellow.     The 
». 

courtiers  bow;  the  King  rises;  REZON  takes  his  stand 

on  the  steps  of  the  throne  at  the  left  of  the  King.] 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  401 

BENHADAD: 

Where  is  my  faithful  servant  Naaman, 
The  captain  of  my  host  ? 

[Trumpets  sound  from  the  city.  The  crowd  on  the 
steps  divide;  the  chain  is  lowered;  NAAMAN  enters, 
followed  by  six  soldiers.  He  is  dressed  in  chain-mail 
with  a  silver  helmet  and  a  cloak  of  blue.  He  un- 
covers, and  kneels  on  the  steps  of  the  throne  at  the 
King's  right.] 
NAAMAN: 

My  lord  the  King, 

The  bearer  of  thy  sword  is  here. 
BENHADAD:  [Giving  NAAMAN  his  hand,  and  sitting  down.] 

Welcome, 

My  strong  right  arm  that  never  me  failed  yet! 
I  am  in  doubt, — but  stay  thou  close  to  me 
While  I  decide  this  cause.     Where  are  the  envoys  ? 
Let  them  appear  and  give  their  message. 

[Enter  the  Assyrian  envoys;  one  in  white  and  the  other 
in  red;  both  with  the  golden  Bull's  head  embroidered 
on  their  robes.  They  come  from  the  right,  rear,  bow 
slightly  before  the  throne,  and  take  the  centre  of  the 
hall] 
WHITE  ENVOY:  [Stepping  forward.] 

Greeting  from  Shalmaneser,  Asshur's  son, 
Who  rules  the  world  from  Nineveh 


402  THE   HOUSE    OF  RIMMON       [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

Unto  Benhadad,  monarch  in  Damascus! 

The  conquering  Bull  has  led  his  army  forth; 

The  south  has  fallen  before  him,  and  the  west 

His  feet  have  trodden;  Hamath  is  laid  waste; 

He  pauses  at  your  gate,  invincible, — 

To  offer  peace.     The  princes  of  your  court, 

The  priests  of  Rimmon's  house,  and  you,  the  King, 

If  you  pay  homage  to  your  Overlord, 

Shall  rest  secure,  and  flourish  as  our  friends. 

Assyria  sends  to  you  this  gilded  yoke; 

Receive  it  as  the  sign  of  proffered  peace. 

[He  lays  a  yoke  on  the  steps  of  the  throne.] 
BENHADAD: 

What  of  the  city?     Said  your  king  no  word 

Of  our  Damascus,  and  the  many  folk 

That  do  inhabit  her  and  make  her  great? 

What  of  the  soldiers  who  have  fought  for  us? 
WHITE  ENVOY: 

Of  these  my  royal  master  did  not  speak. 
BENHADAD: 

Strange  silence!    Must  we  give  them  up  to  him? 

Is  this  the  price  at  which  he  offers  us 

The  yoke  of  peace?    What  if  we  do  refuse? 
RED  ENVOY:  [Stepping  forward.] 

Then  ruthless  war!    War  to  the  uttermost. 
No  quarter,  no  compassion,  no  escape! 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]       THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  403 

The  Bull  will  gore  and  trample  in  his  fury 
Nobles  and  priests  and  king, — none  shall  be  spared! 
Before  the  throne  we  lay  our  second  gift; 
This  bloody  horn,  the  symbol  of  red  war. 

[He  lays  a  long  bull's  horn,  stained  with  bloody  on  the 

steps  of  the  throne.] 
WHITE  ENVOY: 

Our  message  is  delivered.     We  return 
Unto  our  master.     He  will  wait  three  days 
To  know  your  royal  choice  between  his  gifts. 
Keep  which  you  will  and  send  the  other  back. 
The  red  bull's  horn  your  youngest  page  may  bring; 
But  with  the  yoke,  best  send  your  mightiest  army! 

[The  ENVOYS  retire,  amid  confused  murmurs  of  the 
people,  Hie  King  silent,  his  head,  sunken  on  his 
breast.] 
BENHADAD: 

Proud  words,  a  bitter  message,  hard  to  endure! 
We.are  not  now  that  force  which  feared  no  foe: 
Our  old  allies  have  left  us.     Can  we  face  the  Bull 
Alone,  and  beat  him  back  ?     Give  me  your  counsel. 

[Many  speak  at  once,  confusedly.] 
What  babblement  is  this  ?    Were  ye  born  at  Babel  ? 
Give  me  clear  words  and  reasonable  speech. 
RAKHAZ:  [Pompously.] 

O  King,  I  am  a  reasonable  man ! 

And  there  be  some  who  call  me  very  wise 


404  THE   HOUSE    OF  RIMMON       [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

And  prudent;  but  of  this  I  will  not  speak, 
•  For  I  am  also  modest.     Let  me  plead, 

Persuade,  and  reason  you  to  choose  for  peace. 

This  golden  yoke  may  be  a  bitter  draught, 

But  better  far  to  fold  it  in  our  arms, 

Than  risk  our  cargoes  in  the  savage  horn 

Of  war.     Shall  we  imperil  all  our  wealth, 

Our  valuable  lives  ?    Nobles  are  few, 

Rich  men  are  rare,  and  wise  men  rarer  still; 

The  precious  jewels  on  the  tree  of  life, 

Wherein  the  common  people  are  but  bricks 

And  clay  and  rubble.     Let  the  city  go, 

But  save  the  corner-stones  that  float  the  ship! 

Have  I  not  spoken  well? 
BENHADAD:  [Shaking  his  head.] 

Excellent  well! 

Most  eloquent!    But  misty  in  the  meaning. 
HAZAEL:  [With  cold  decision.] 

Then  let  me  speak,  O  King,  in  plainer  words! 

The  days  of  independent  states  are  past: 

The  tide  of  empire  sweeps  across  the  earth ; 

Assyria  rides  it  with  resistless  power 

And  thunders  on  to  subjugate  the  world. 

Oppose  her,  and  we  fight  with  Destiny; 

Submit  to  her  demands,  and  we  shall  ride 

With  her  to  victory.     Therefore  accept 

The  golden  yoke,  Assyria's  gift  of  peace. 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  405 

NAAMAN:  [Starting  forward  eagerly.] 

There  is  no  peace  beneath  a  conqueror's  yoke! 

For  every  state  that  barters  liberty 

To  win  imperial  favour,  shall  be  drained 

Of  her  best  blood,  henceforth,  in  endless  wars 

To  make  the  empire  greater.     Here's  the  choice, 

My  King,  we  fight  to  keep  our  country  free, 

Or  else  we  fight  forevermore  to  help 

Assyria  bind  the  world  as  we  are  bound. 

I  am  a  soldier,  and  I  know  the  hell 

Of  war!  But  I  will  gladly  ride  through  hell 

To  save  Damascus.     Master,  bid  me  ride! 

Ten  thousand  chariots  wait  for  your  command; 

And  twenty  thousand  horsemen  strain  the  leash 

Of  patience  till  you  let  them  go;  a  throng 

Of  spearmen,  archers,  swordsmen,  like  the  sea 

Chafing  against  a  dike,  roar  for  the  onset! 

O  master,  let  me  launch  your  mighty  host 

Against  the  Bull, — we'll  bring  him  to  his  knees! 

[Cries  of  "war!"  from  the  soldiers  and  the  people; 
"peace!"  from  the  courtiers  and  the  priests.  The 
King  rises,  turning  toward  NAAMAN,  and  seems 
about  to  speak.  REZON  lifts  his  rod.] 

REZON: 

Shall  not  the  gods  decide  when  mortals  doubt? 
Rimmon  is  master  of  the  city's  fate; 


406  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

We  read  his  will,  by  our  most  ancient-faith, 

In  omens  and  in  signs  of  mystery. 

Must  we  not  hearken  to  his  high  commands? 

BENHADAD:  [Sinking  back  on  the  throne,  submissively.} 
I  am  the  faithful  son  of  Rimmon's  House. 
Consult  the  oracle.     But  who  shall  read? 

REZON: 

Tsarpi,  the  wife  of  Naaman,  who  served 
Within  the  temple  in  her  maiden  years, 
Shall  be  the  mouth-piece  of  the  mighty  god, 
To-day's  high-priestess.     Bring  the  sacrifice! 

[Gongs  and  cymbals  sound:  enter  priests  carrying  an 
altar  on  which  a  lamb  is  bound.  The  altar  is  placed 
in  the  centre  of  the  hall.  TSARPI  follows  the  priests, 
covered  with  a  long  transparent  veil  of  black,  sown 
with  gold  stars;  RUAHMAH,  in  white,  bears  her 
train.  TSARPI  stands  before  the  altar,  facing  it,  and 
lifts  her  right  hand  holding  a  knife.  RUAHMAH 
steps  back,  near  the  throne,  her  hands  crossed  on 
her  breast,  her  head  bowed.  The  priests  close 
in  around  TSARPI  and  the  altar.  The  knife  is 
seen  to  strike  downward.  Gongs  and  cymbals 
sound:  cries  of  uRimmon,  hear  us!"  The  circle 
of  priests  opens,  and  TSARPI  turns  slowly  to  face 
the  King.} 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  407 

TSARPI:  [Monotonously.] 

Black  is  the  blood  of  the  victim, 

Rimmon  is  unfavourable, 

Asratu  is  unfavourable; 

They  will  not  war  against  Asshur, 

They  will  make  a  league  with  the  God  of  Nineveh. 

Evil  is  in  store  for  Damascus, 

A  strong  enemy  will  lay  waste  the  land. 

Therefore  make  peace  with  the  Bull; 

Hearken  to  the  voice  of  Rimmon. 

[She  turns  again  to  the  altar,  and  the  priests  close  in 
around  her.  REZON  lifts  his  rod  toward  the  tower 
of  the  temple.  A  flash  of  lightning  followed  by 
thunder;  smoke  rises  from  the  altar;  all  except  NAA- 
MAN  and  RUAHMAH  cover  their  faces.  The  circle  of 
priests  opens  again,  and  TSARPI  comes  forward 
slowly,  chanting.] 

CHANT: 

Hear  the  words  of  Rimmon  !  Thus  your  Maker  speaketh: 
I,  the  god  of  thunder,  riding  on  the  whirlwind, 
I,  the  god  of  lightning  leaping  from  the  storm-cloud, 
I  will  smite  with  vengeance  him  who  dares  defy  me  ! 
He  who  leads  Damascus  into  war  with  Asshur, 
Conquering  or  conquered,  bears  my  curse  upon  him. 
Surely  shall  my  arrow  strike  his  heart  in  secret, 


4o8  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON       [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

Burn  his  flesh  with  fever,  turn  his  blood  to  poison, 

Brand  him  with  corruption,  drive  him  into  darkness; 

He  shall  surely  perish  by  the  doom  of  Rimmon. 

[All  are  terrified  and  look  toward  NAAMAN,  shuddering. 
RUAHMAH  alone  seems  not  to  heed  the  curse,  but 
stands  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  NAAMAN.] 
RUAHMAH: 

Be  not  afraid !     There  is  a  greater  God 

Shall  cover  thee  with  His  almighty  wings: 

Beneath  his  shield  and  buckler  shalt  thou  trust. 
BENHADAD: 

Repent,  my  son,  thou  must  not  brave  this  curse. 
NAAMAN: 

My  King,  there  is  no  curse  as  terrible 

As  that  which  lights  a  bosom-fire  for  him 

Who  gives  away  his  honour,  to  prolong 

A  craven  life  whose  every  breath  is  shame! 

If  I  betray  the  men  who  follow  me, 

The  city  that  has  put  her  trust  in  me, 

What  king  can  shield  me  from  my  own  deep  scorn 

What  god  release  me  from  that  self-made  hell  ? 

The  tender  mercies  of  Assyria 

I  know;  and  they  are  cruel  as  creeping  tigers. 

Give  up  Damascus,  and  her  streets  will  run 

Rivers  of  innocent  blood;  the  city's  heart, 

That  mighty,  labouring  heart,  wounded  and  crushed 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  409 

Beneath  the  brutal  hooves  of  the  wild  Bull, 

Will  cry  against  her  captain,  sitting  safe 

Among  the  nobles,  in  some  pleasant  place. 

I  shall  be  safe, — safe  from  the  threatened  wrath 

Of  unknown  gods,  but  damned  forever  by 

The  men  I  know, — that  is  the  curse  I  fear. 
BENHADAD: 

Speak  not  so  high,  my  son.     Must  we  not  bow 

Our  heads  before  the  sovereignties  of  heaven  ? 

The  unseen  rulers  are  Divine. 
NAAMAN: 

O  King, 

I  am  unlearned  in  the  lore  of  priests; 

Yet  well  I  know  that  there  are  hidden  powers 

About  us,  working  mortal  weal  and  woe 

Beyond  the  force  of  mortals  to  control. 

And  if  these  powers  appear  in  love  and  truth, 

I  think  they  must  be  gods,  and  worship  them. 

But  if  their  secret  will  is  manifest 

In  blind  decrees  of  sheer  omnipotence, 

That  punish  where  no  fault  is  found,  and  smite 

The  poor  with  undeserved  calamity, 

And  pierce  the  undefended  in  the  dark 

With  arrows  of  injustice,  and  foredoom 

The  innocent  to  burn  in  endless  pain, 

I  will  not  call  this  fierce  almightiness 

Divine.     Though  I  must  bear,  with  every  man, 


4io  THE   HOUSE    OF  RIMMON       [ACT  i,  sc.  n 

The  burden  of  my  life  ordained,  I'll  keep 

My  soul  unterrified,  and  tread  the  path 

Of  truth  and  honour  with  a  steady  heart! 

Have  ye  not  heard,  my  lords  ?    The  oracle 

Proclaims  to  me,  to  me  alone,  the  doom 

Of  vengeance  if  I  lead  the  army  out. 

" Conquered  or  conquering!"  I  grip  that  chance! 

Damascus  free,  her  foes  all  beaten  back, 

The  people  saved  from  slavery,  the  King 

Upheld  in  honour  on  his  ancient  throne, — 

O  what's  the  cost  of  this?     I'll  gladly  pay 

Whatever  gods  there  be,  whatever  price 

They  ask  for  this  one  victory.     Give  me 

This  gilded  sign  of  shame  to  carry  back; 

I'll  shake  it  in  the  face  of  Asshur's  king, 

And  break  it  on  his  teeth. 
BENHADAD:  [Rising.] 

Then  go,  my  never-beaten  captain,  go ! 

And  may  the  powers  that  hear  thy  solemn  vow 

Forgive  thy  rashness  for  Damascus'  sake, 

Prosper  thy  fighting,  and  remit  thy  pledge. 
REZON:  [Standing  beside  the  altar.] 

The  pledge,  O  King,  this  man  must  seal  his  pledge 

At  Rimmon's  altar.    He  must  take  the  cup 

Of  soldier-sacrament,  and  bind  himself 

By  thrice-performed  libation  to  abide 

The  fate  he  has  invoked. 


ACT  i,  sc.  ii]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  411 

NAAMAN:  [Slowly.] 

And  so  I  will. 

[He  comes  down  the  steps,  toward  the  altar,  where 
REZON   is  filling   the   cup   which   TSARPI   holds. 
RUAHMAH  throws  herself  before  NAAMAN,  clasping 
his  knees.] 
RUAHMAH:  [Passionately  and  wildly.] 

My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you,  stay !    There's  death 
Within  that  cup.     It  is  an  offering 
To  devils.     See,  the  wine  blazes  like  fire, 
It  flows  like  blood,  it  is  a  cursed  cup, 
Fulfilled  of  treachery  and  hate. 
Dear  master,  noble  master,  touch  it  not! 
NAAMAN: 

Poor  maid,  thy  brain  is  still  distraught.     Fear  not, 
But  let  me  go!    Here,  treat  her  tenderly! 

[Gives  her  into  the  hands  of  SABALLIDIN.] 
Can  harm  befall  me  from  the  wife  who  bears 
My  name  ?     I  take  the  cup  of  fate  from  her. 
I  greet  the  unknown  powers;  [Pours  libation.} 
I  will  perform  my  vow;  [Again.} 
I  will  abide  my  fate;    [Again.] 
I  pledge  my  life  to  keep  Damascus  free. 
[He  drains  the  cup,  and  lets  it  fall.} 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II 

TIME:     A  week  later. 

The  fore-court  of  the  House  of  Rimmon.  At  the  back  the  broad 
steps  and  double  doors  of  the  shrine:  above  them  the  tower  of 
the  god,  its  summit  invisible.  Enter  various  groups  of  citizens, 
talking  laughing,  shouting:  RAKHAZ,  HAZAEL,  SHUMAKIM 
and  others. 
FIRST  CITIZEN: 

Great  news,  glorious  news,  the  Assyrians  are  beaten ! 
SECOND  CITIZEN: 

Naaman  is  returning,  crowned  with  victory.    Glory  to  our 

noble  captain! 
THIRD  CITIZEN: 

No,  he  is  killed.     I  had  it  from  one  of  the  camp-followers 
who  saw  him  fall  at  the  head  of  the  battle.     They  are 
bringing  his  body  to  bury  it  with  honour.     O  sorrowful 
victory! 
RAKHAZ: 

Peace,  my  good  fellows,  you  are  ignorant,  you  have  not 
been  rightly  informed,  I  will  misinform  you.     The  ac- 
counts of  Naaman's  death   are  overdrawn.     He  was 
killed,   but  his  life  has  been  preserved.     One  of  his 
412 


ACTHJ  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  413 

wounds  was  mortal,  but  the  other  three  were  curable, 
and  by  these  the  physicians  have  saved  him. 
SHUMAKEM:    [Balancing  himself  before  RAKHAZ  in  pretended 

admiration.} 

O  wonderful!    Most  admirable  logic!    One  mortal,  and 
three  curable,  therefore  he  must  recover  as  it  were,  by 
three  to  one.     Rakhaz,  do  you  know  that  you  are  a 
marvelous  man? 
RAKHAZ: 

Yes,  I  know  it,  but  I  make  no  boast  of  my  knowledge. 
SHUMAKIM: 

Too  modest,  for  in  knowing  this  you  know  more  than 
any  other  in  Damascus! 

[Enter,  from  the  right,  SABALLIDIN  in  armour:  from 
the  left,  TSARPI  with  her  attendants,  among  whom  is 
RUAHMAH.] 
HAZAEL: 

Here  is  Saballidin,  we'll  question  him; 
He  was  enflamed  by  Naaman's  wild  words, 
And  rode  with  him  to  battle.     Give  us  news, 
Of  your  great  captain!    Is  he  safe  and  well? 
When  will  he  come?     Or  will  he  come  at  all? 
[All  gather  around  him  listening  eagerly.} 
SABALLIDIN: 

He  comes  but  now,  returning  from  the  field 
Where  he  hath  gained  a  crown  of  deathless  fame! 


414  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  IACT  n 

Three  times  he  led  the  charge;  three  times  he  fell 

Wounded,  and  the  Assyrians  beat  us  back. 

Yet  every  wound  was  but  a  spur  to  urge. 

His  valour  onward.     In  the  last  attack 

He  rode  before  us  as  the  crested  wave 

That  leads  the  flood;  and  lo,  our  enemies 

Were  broken  like  a  dam  of  river-reeds. 

The  flying  King  encircled  by  his  guard 

Was  lodged  like  driftwood  on  a  little  hill. 

Then  Naaman,  who  led  our  foremost  band 

Of  whirlwind  riders,  hammered  through  the  hedge 

Of  spearmen,  brandishing  the  golden  yoke. 

"Take  back  this  gift,"  he  cried;  and  shattered  it 

On  Shalmaneser's  helmet.     So  the  fight 

Dissolved  in  universal  rout;  the  King, 

His  chariots  and  his  horsemen  fled  away: 

Our  captain  stood  the  master  of  the  field, 

And  saviour  of  Damascus!    Now  he  brings, 

First  to  the  King,  report  of  this  great  triumph. 

[Shouts  of  joy  and  applause.] 
RUAHMAH:  [Coming  close  to  SABALLIDIN.] 

But  what  of  him  who  won  it?     Fares  he  well? 
My  mistress  would  receive  some  word  of  him. 

SABALLIDIN: 

Hath  she  not  heard  ? 


ACT  ii]  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  415 

RUAHMAH: 

But  one  brief  message  came: 
A  letter  saying,  "We  have  fought  and  conquered," 
No  word  of  his  own  person.     Fares  he  well  ? 
SABALLIDIN: 

Alas,  most  ill !    For  he  is  like  a  man 
Consumed  by  some  strange  sickness:  wasted,  wan, — 
His  eyes  are  dimmed  so  that  he  scarce  can  see; 
His  ears  are  dulled;  his  fearless  face  is  pale 
As  one  who  walks  to  meet  a  certain  doom 
Yet  will  not  flinch.     It  is  most  pitiful, — 
But  you  shall  see. 
RUAHMAH: 

Yea,  we  shall  see  a  man 
Who  dared  to  face  the  wrath  of  evil  powers 
Unknown,  and  hazard  all  to  save  his  country. 

[Enter  BENHADAD  with  courtiers.} 
BENHADAD: 

Where  is  my  faithful  servant  Naaman, 
The  captain  of  my  host? 
SABALLIDIN: 

My  lord,  he  comes. 

[Trumpet  sounds.  Enter  company  of  soldiers  in  ar- 
mour. Then  four  soldiers  bearing  captured  stand- 
ards of  Asshur.  NAAMAN  follows,  very  pale,  armour 
dinted  and  stained;  he  is  blind,  and  guides  himself 


416  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  [ACT  n 

by  cords  from  the  standards  on  each  side,  but  walks 
firmly.  The  doors  of  the  temple  open  slightly,  and 
REZON  appears  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  NAAMAN  lets 
the  cords  fall,  and  gropes  his  way  for  a  few  paces.] 

NAAMAN:  [Kneeling.] 

Where  is  my  King? 

Master,  the  bearer  of  thy  sword  returns. 
The  golden  yoke  thou  gavest  me  I  broke 
On  him  who  sent  it.     Asshur's  Bull  hath  fled 
Dehorned.     The  standards  of  his  host  are  thine! 
Damascus  is  all  thine,  at  peace,  and  free! 

BENHADAD:  [Holding  out  his  arms] 

Thou  art  a  mighty  man  of  valour!     Come, 
And  let  me  fold  thy  courage  to  my  heart. 

REZON:  [Lifting  his  rod] 

Forbear,  O  King!     Stand  back  from  him,  all  men! 
By  the  great  name  of  Rimmon  I  proclaim 
This  man  a  leper!     See,  upon  his  brow, 
This  little  mark,  the  death-white  seal  of  doom! 
That  tiny  spot  will  spread,  eating  his  flesh, 
Gnawing  his  fingers  bone  from  bone,  until 
The  impious  heart  that  dared  defy  the  gods 
Dissolves  in  the  slow  death  which  now  begins. 
Unclean!  unclean!    Henceforward  he  is  dead: 
No  human  hand  shall  touch  him,  and  no  home 
Of  men  shall  give  him  shelter.     He  shall  walk 


ACT  ii]  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  417 

Only  with  corpses  of  the  selfsame  death 

Down  the  long  path  to  a  forgotten  tomb. 

Avoid,  depart,  I  do  adjure  you  all, 

Leave  him  to  god, — the  leper  Naaman ! 

[All  shrink  back  horrified.  REZON  retires  into  the  tem- 
ple; the  crowd  melts  away,  wailing:  TSARPI  is 
among  the  first  to  go,  followed  by  her  attendants,  ex- 
cept RUAHMAH,  who  crouches,  with  her  face  covered, 
not  far  from  NAAMAN.] 
BENHADAD:  [Lingering  and  turning  back.} 

Alas,  my  son!     O  Naaman,  my  son! 

Why  did  I  let  thee  go  ?     I  must  obey. 

Who  can  resist  the  gods  ?     Yet  none  shall  take 

Thy  glorious  title,  captain  of  my  host! 

I  will  provide  for  thee,  and  thou  shalt  dwell 

With  guards  of  honour  in  a  house  of  mine 

Always.     Damascus  never  shall  forget 

What  thou  hast  done!     O  miserable  words 

Of  crowned  impotence!     O  mockery  of  power 

Given  to  kings  who  cannot  even  defend 

Their  dearest  from  the  secret  wrath  of  heaven! 

O  Naaman,  my  son,  my  son !     [Exit.] 

NAAMAN:    [Slowly,  passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  looking 
up.] 

Am  I  alone 

With  thee,  inexorable  one,  whose  pride 


4i8  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  [ACT  n 

Offended  takes  this  horrible  revenge  ? 
I  must  submit  my  mortal  flesh  to  thee, 
Almighty,  but  I  will  not  call  thee  god ! 
Yet  thou  hast  found  the  way  to  wound  my  soul 
Most  deeply  through  the  flesh ;  and  I  must  find 
The  way  to  let  my  wounded  soul  escape ! 
[Drawing  his  sword.] 

Come,  my  last  friend,  thou  art  more  merciful 
Than  Rimmon.     Why  should  I  endure  the  doom 
He  sends  me  ?    Irretrievably  cut  off 
From  all  dear  intercourse  of  human  love, 
From  all  the  tender  touch  of  human  hands, 
From  all  brave  comradeship  with  brother-men, 
With  eyes  that  see  no  faces  through  this  dark, 
With  ears  that  hear  all  voices  far  away, 
Why  should  I  cling  to  misery,  and  grope 
My  long,  long  way  from  pain  to  pain,  alone? 

RUAHMAH:  [At  his  feet.] 

Nay,  not  alone,  dear  lord,  for  I  am  here; 

And  I  will  never  leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee! 
NAAMAN: 

What  voice  is  that?    The  silence  of  my  tomb 

Is  broken  by  a  ray  of  music, — whose  ? 
RUAHMAH:  [Rising.] 

The  one  who  loves  thee  best  in  all  the  world. 


ACT  ii]  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  419 

NAAMAN: 

Why  that  should  be, — O  dare  I  dream  it  true? 
Tsarpi,  my  wife?     Have  I  misjudged  thy  heart 
As  cold  and  proud?     How  nobly  thou  forgivest! 
Thou  com'st  to  hold  me  from  the  last  disgrace, — 
The  coward's  flight  into  the  dark.     Go  back 
Unstained,  my  sword!    Life  is  endurable 
While  there  is  one  alive  on  earth  who  loves  us. 

RUAHMAH: 

My  lord, — my  lord, — O  listen !     You  have  erred, — 
You  do  mistake  me  now, — this  dream — 

NAAMAN: 

Ah,  wake  me  not!    For  I  can  conquer  death 
Dreaming  this  dream.     Let  me  at  last  believe, 
Though  gods  are  cruel,  a  woman  can  be  kind. 
Grant  me  but  this !    For  see, — I  ask  so  little, — 
Only  to  know  that  thou  art  faithful, 
That  thou  art  near  me,  though  I  touch  thee  not, — 
O  this  will  hold  me  up,  though  it  be  given 
From  pity  more  than  love. 

RUAHMAH:  [Trembling,  and  speaking  slowly.] 

Not  so,  my  lord! 

My  pity  is  a  stream;  my  pride  of  thee 
Is  like  the  sea  that  doth  engulf  the  stream; 
My  love  for  thee  is  like  the  sovereign  moon 
That  rules  the  sea.     The  tides  that  fill  my  soul 
Flow  unto  thee  and  follow  after  thee; 


420  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  [ACT  n 

And  where  thou  goest  I  will  go;  and  where 
Thou  diest  I  will  die, — in  the  same  hour. 

[She  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm.     He  draws  back.] 

NAAMAN: 

O  touch  me  not!     Thou  shalt  not  share  my  doom. 

RUAHMAH: 

Entreat  me  not  to  go.     I  will  obey 

In  all  but  this;  but  rob  me  not  of  this, — 

The  only  boon  that  makes  life  worth  the  living, — 

To  walk  beside  thee  day  by  day,  and  keep 

Thy  foot  from  stumbling;  to  prepare  thy  food 

When  thou  art  hungry,  music  for  thy  rest, 

And  cheerful  words  to  comfort  thy  black  hour; 

And  so  to  lead  thee  ever  on,  and  on, 

Through  darkness,  till  we  find  the  door  of  hope. 

NAAMAN: 

What  word  is  that?    The  leper  has  no  hope. 

RUAHMAH: 

Dear  lord,  the  mark  upon  thy  brow  is  yet 

No  broader  than  my  little  finger-nail. 

Thy  force  is  not  abated,  and  thy  step 

Is  firm.     Wilt  thou  surrender  to  the  enemy 

Before  thy  strength  is  touched?    Why,  let  me  put 

A  drop  of  courage  from  my  breast  in  thine! 

There  is  a  hope  for  thee.     The  captive  maid 

Of  Israel  who  dwelt  within  thy  house 

Knew  of  a  god  very  compassionate, 


ACT  ii]  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  421 

Long-suffering,  slow  to  anger,  one  who  heals 

The  sick,  hath  pity  on  the  fatherless, 

And  saves  the  poor  and  him  who  has  no  helper. 

His  prophet  dwells  nigh  to  Samaria; 

And  I  have  heard  that  he  hath  brought  the  dead 

To  life  again.     We'll  go  to  him.     The  King, 

If  I  beseech  him,  will  appoint  a  guard 

Of  thine  own  soldiers  and  Saballidin, 

Thy  friend,  to  convoy  us  upon  our  journey. 

He'll  give  us  royal  letters  to  the  King 

Of  Israel  to  make  our  welcome  sure; 

And  we  will  take  the  open  road,  beneath 

The  open  sky,  to-morrow,  and  go  on 

Together  till  we  find  the  door  of  hope. 

Come,  come  with  me! 

[She  grasps  his  hand.] 
NAAMAN:  [Drawing  back.] 

Thou  must  not  touch  me! 

RUAHMAH:    [Unclasping  her  girdle  and  putting  the  end  in 
his  hand.] 

Take  my  girdle,  then! 
NAAMAN:   [Kissing  the  clasp  of  the  girdle.} 

I  do  begin  to  think  there  is  a  God, 

Since  love  on  earth  can  work  such  miracles! 

CURTAIN 


ACT  III 

TIME:    A  month  later:  dawn 
SCENE  I 

NAAMAN'S  tent,  on  high  ground  among  the  mountains  near  Sa- 
maria: the  city  below.  In  the  distance,  a  wide  and  splendid 
landscape.  SABALLIDIN  and  soldiers  on  guard  below  the  tent. 
Enter  RUAHMAH  in  hunter's  dress,  with  a  lute  slung  from  her 
shoulder. 
RUAHMAH: 

Peace  and  good  health  to  you,  Saballidin. 
Good  morrow  to  you  all.     How  fares  my  lord  ? 
SABALLIDIN: 

The  curtains  of  his  tent  are  folded  still: 
They  have  not  moved  since  we  returned,  last  night, 
And  told  him  what  befell  us  in  the  city. 
RUAHMAH: 

Told  him!    Why  did  you  make  report  to  him 
And  not  to  me?    Am  I  not  captain  here, 
Intrusted  by  the  King's  command  with  care 
Of  Naarnan  until  he  is  restored  ? 
'Tis  mine  to  know  the  first  of  good  or  ill 
422 


ACT  m,  sc.  i]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  423 

In  this  adventure:  mine  to  shield  his  heart 
From  every  arrow  of  adversity. 
What  have  you  told  him?     Speak! 

SABALLIDIN: 

Lady,  we  feared 

To  bring  our  news  to  you.     For  when  the  King 
Of  Israel  had  read  our  monarch's  letter, 
He  rent  his  clothes,  and  cried,  "Am  I  a  god, 
To  kill  and  make  alive,  that  I  should  heal 
A  leper?    Ye  have  come  with  false  pretence, 
Damascus  seeks  a  quarrel  with  me.     Go!" 
But  when  we  told  our  lord,  he  closed  his  tent, 
And  there  remains  enfolded  in  his  grief. 
I  trust  he  sleeps;  Jt  were  kind  to  let  him  sleep! 
For  now  he  doth  forget  his  misery, 
And  all  the  burden  of  his  hopeless  woe 
Is  lifted  from  him  by  the  gentle  hand 
Of  slumber.     Oh,  to  those  bereft  of  hope 
Sleep  is  the  only  blessing  left, — the  last 
Asylum  of  the  weary,  the  one  sign 
Of  pity  from  impenetrable  heaven. 
Waking  is  strife;  sleep  is  the  truce  of  God! 
Ah,  lady,  wake  him  not.     The  day  will  be 
Full  long  for  him  to  suffer,  and  for  us 
To  turn  our  disappointed  faces  home 
On  the  long  road  by  which  we  must  return. 


424  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACTIII,SC.I 

RUAHMAH: 

Return !    Who  gave  you  that  command  ?    Not  I ! 

The  King  made  me  the  leader  of  this  quest, 

And  bound  you  all  to  follow  me,  because 

He  knew  I  never  would  return  without 

The  thing  for  which  he  sent  us.     I'll  go  on 

Day  after  day,  unto  the  uttermost  parts 

Of  earth,  if  need  be,  and  beyond  the  gates 

Of  morning,  till  I  find  that  which  I  seek, — 

New  life  for  Naaman.     Are  ye  ashamed 

To  have  a  woman  lead  you  ?    Then  go  back 

And  tell  the  King,  "This  huntress  went  too  far 

For  us  to  follow:  she  pursues  the  trail 

Of  hope  alone,  refusing  to  forsake 

The  quarry:  we  grew  weary  of  the  chase; 

And  so  we  left  her  and  retraced  our  steps, 

Like  faithless  hounds,  to  sleep  beside  the  fire." 

Did  Naaman  forsake  his  soldiers  thus 

When  you  went  forth  to  hunt  the  Assyrian  Bull  ? 

Your  manly  courage  is  less  durable 

Than  woman's  love,  it  seems.     Go,  if  you  will, — 

Who  bids  me  now  farewell  ? 

SOLDIERS: 

Not  I,  not  I! 

SABALLIDIN: 

Lady,  lead  on,  we'll  follow  you  forever! 


ACTIII,SC.I]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  425 

RUAHMAH: 

Why,  now  you  speak  like  men!    Brought  you  no  word 

Out  of  Samaria,  except  that  cry 

Of  impotence  and  fear  from  Israel's  King? 
SABALLIDIN: 

I  do  remember  while  he  spoke  with  us 

A  rustic  messenger  came  in,  and  cried 

"Elisha  saith,  bring  Naaman  to  me 

At  Dothan,  he  shall  surely  know  there  is 

A  God  in  Israel." 
RUAHMAH: 

What  said  the  King? 
SABALLIDIN: 

He  only  shouted  "Go!"  more  wildly  yet, 

And  rent  his  clothes  again,  as  if  he  were 

Half-maddened  by  a  coward's  fear,  and  thought 

Only  of  how  he  might  be  rid  of  us. 

What  comfort  could  there  be  for  him,  what  hope 

For  us,  in  the  rude  prophet's  misty  word  ? 
RUAHMAH: 

It  is  the  very  word  for  which  I  prayed! 

My  trust  was  not  in  princes ;  for  the  crown, 

The  sceptre,  and  the  purple  robe  are  not 

Significant  of  vital  power.     The  man 

Who  saves  his  brother-men  is  he  who  lives 

His  life  with  Nature,  takes  deep  hold  on  truth, 


426  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACTIII,SC.I 

And  trusts  in  God.     A  prophet's  word  is  more 
Than  all  the  kings  on  earth  can  speak.     How  far 
Is  Dothan? 
SOLDIER: 

Lady,  'tis  but  three  hours'  ride 
Along  the  valley  southward. 
RUAHMAH: 

Near!  so  near? 

I  had  not  thought  to  end  my  task  so  soon ! 
Prepare  yourselves  with  speed  to  take  the  road.- 
I  will  awake  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  all  but  SABALLIDIN  and  RUAHMAH.    She  goes 

toward  the  tent!] 
SABALLIDIN: 

Ruahmah,  stay!  [She  turns  back.] 
I've  been  your  servant  in  this  doubtful  quest, 
Obedient,  faithful,  loyal  to  your  will, — 
What  have  I  earned  by  this  ? 
RUAHMAH: 

The  gratitude 

Of  him  we  both  desire  to  serve :  your  friend, — 
My  master  and  my  lord. 
SABALLIDIN: 

No  more  than  this  ? 
RUAHMAH: 

Yes,  if  you  will,  take  all  the  thanks  my  hands 
Can  hold,  my  lips  can  speak. 


ACT  m,  sc.  i]     THE  HOUSE  OF  RIMMON  427 

SABALLIDIN: 

I  would  have  more. 
RUAHMAH: 

My  friend,  there's  nothing  more  to  give  to  you. 

My  service  to  my  lord  is  absolute. 

There's  not  a  drop  of  blood  within  my  veins 

But  quickens  at  the  very  thought  of  him; 

And  not  a  dream  of  mine  but  he  doth  stand 

Within  its  heart  and  make  it  bright.     No  man 

To  me  is  other  than  his  friend  or  foe. 

You  are  his  friend,  and  I  believe  you  true! 
SABALLIDIN: 

I  have  been  true  to  him, — now,  I  am  true 

To  you. 
RUAHMAH: 

Why,  then,  be  doubly  true  to  him! 

O  let  us  match  our  loyalties,  and  strive 

Between  us  who  shall  win  the  higher  crown! 

Men  boast  them  of  a  friendship  stronger  far 

Than  love  of  woman.     Prove  it!     I'll  not  boast, 

But  I'll  contend  with  you  on  equal  terms 

In  this  brave  race :  and  if  you  win  the  prize 

I'll  hold  you  next  to  him:  and  if  I  win 

He'll  hold  you  next  to  me;  and  either  way 

We'll  not  be  far  apart.     Do  you  accept 

My  challenge? 


428  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACT  111,50.1 

SABALLIDIN: 

Yes!    For  you  enforce  my  heart 
By  honour  to  resign  its  great  desire, 
And  love  itself  to  offer  sacrifice 
Of  all  disloyal  dreams  on  its  own  altar. 
Yet  love  remains;  therefore  I  pray  you,  think 
How  surely  you  must  lose  in  our  contention. 
For  I  am  known  to  Naaman:  but  you 
He  blindly  takes  for  Tsarpi.     'Tis  to  her 
He  gives  his  gratitude:  the  praise  you  win 
Endears  her  name. 

RUAHMAH: 

Her  name?    Why,  what  is  that? 
A  name  is  but  an  empty  shell,  a  mask 
That  does  not  change  the  features  of  the  face 
Beneath  it.     Can  a  name  rejoice,  or  weep, 
Or  hope?     Can  it  be  moved  by. tenderness 
To  daily  services  of  love,  or  feel  the  warmth 
Of  dear  companionship  ?    How  many  things 
We  call  by  names  that  have  no  meaning!  Kings 
That  cannot  rule;  and  gods  that  are  not  good; 
And  wives  that  do  not  love!     It  matters  not 
What  syllables  he  utters  when  he  calls, 
'Tis  I  who  come, — 'tis  I  who  minister 
Unto  my  lord,  and  mine  the  living  heart 
That  feels  the  comfort  of  his  confidence, 


ACT  m,  sc.  i]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  429 

The  thrill  of  gladness  when  he  speaks  to  me, — 
I  do  not  hear  the  name! 

SABALLIDIN: 

And  yet,  be  sure 
There's  danger  in  this  error, — and  no  gain! 

RUAHMAH: 

I  seek  no  gain:  I  only  tread  the  path 
Marked  for  me  daily  by  the  hand  of  love. 
And  if  his  blindness  spared  my  lord  one  pang 
Of  sorrow  in  his  black,  forsaken  hour, — 
And  if  this  error  makes  his  burdened  heart 
More  quiet,  and  his  shadowed  way  less  dark, 
Whom  do  I  rob  ?    Not  her  who  chose  to  stay 
At  ease  in  Rimmon's  House!     Surely  not  him! 
Only  myself!.   And  that  enriches  me. 
Why  trouble  we  the  master?    Let  it  go, — 
To-morrow  he  must  know  the  truth, — and  then 
He  shall  dispose  of  me  e'en  as  he  will! 

SABALLIDIN: 

To-morrow? 

RUAHMAH: 

Yes,  for  I  will  tarry  here, 
While  you  conduct  him  to  Elisha's  house 
To  find  the  promised  healing.     I  forebode 
A  sudden  danger  from  the  craven  King 
Of  Israel,  or  else  a  secret  ambush 


430  THE  HOUSE  OF  RIMMON      [Acrm,sc.t 

From  those  who  hate  us  in  Damascus.     Go, 
But  leave  me  twenty  men:  this  mountain-pass 
Protects  the  road  behind  you.     Make  my  lord 
Obey  the  prophet's  word,  whatever  he  commands, 
And  come  again  in  peace.     Farewell! 

[Exit  SABALLIDIN.     RUAHMAH  goes  toward  the  ten!, 

then  pauses  and  turns  back.    She  takes  her  lute  mid 

sings.] 

SONG 

Above  the  edge  of  dark  appear  the  lances  of  the  sun; 
Along  the  mountain-ridges  clear  his  rosy  heralds  run; 

The  vapours  down  the  valley  go 

Like  broken  armies,  dark  and  low. 

Look  up,  my  heart,  from  every  hill 

Infolds  of  rose  and  daffodil 

The  sunrise  banners  flow. 

O  fly  away  on  silent  wing,  ye  boding  owls  of  night! 
O  welcome  little  birds  that  sing  the  coming-in  of  light! 

For  new,  and  new,  and  ever-new, 

The  golden  bud  within  the  blue; 

And  every  morning  seems  to  say: 

"  There's  something  happy  on  the  way, 

"And  God  sends  love  to  you!" 


ACT  m,  sc.  i]     THE  HOUSE  OF  RIMMON  431 

NAAMAN:  [Appearing  at  the  entrance  of  his  tent.} 
O  let  me  ever  wake  to  music!    For  the  soul 
Returns  most  gently  then,  and  finds  its  way 
By  the  soft,  winding  clue  of  melody, 
Out  of  the  dusky  labyrinth  of  sleep, 
Into  the  light.     My  body  feels  the  sun 
Though  I  behold  naught  that  his  rays  reveal. 
Come,  thou  who  art  my  daydawn  and  my  sight, 
Sweet  eyes,  come  close,  and  make  the  sunrise  mine! 

RUAHMAH:  [Coming  near.] 

A  fairer  day,  dear  lord,  was  never  born 
In  Paradise!    The  sapphire  cup  of  heaven 
Is  filled  with  golden  wine:  the  earth,  adorned 
With  jewel-drops  of  dew,  unveils  her  face 
A  joyful  bride,  in  welcome  to  her  king. 
And  look!    He  leaps  upon  the  Eastern  hills 
All  ruddy  fire,  and  claims  her  with  a  kiss. 
Yonder  the  snowy  peaks  of  Hermon  float 
Unmoving  as  a  wind-dropt  cloud.     The  gulf 
Of  Jordan,  filled  with  violet  haze,  conceals 
The  river's  winding  trail  with  wreaths  of  mist. 
Below  us,  marble-crowned  Samaria  thrones 
Upon  her  emerald  hill  amid  the  Vale 
Of  Barley,  while  the  plains  to  northward  change 
Their  colour  like  the  shimmering  necks  of  doves. 
The  lark  springs  up,  with  morning  on  her  wings, 


432  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACTIII,SC.I 

To  climb  her  singing  stairway  in  the  blue, 

And  all  the  fields  are  sprinkled  with  her  joy! 
NAAMAN: 

Thy  voice  is  magical:  thy  words  are  visions! 

I  must  content  myself  with  them,  for  now 

My  only  hope  is  lost:  Samaria's  King 

Rejects  our  monarch's  message,— hast  thou  heard? 

"Am  I  a  god  that  I  should  cure  a  leper?" 

He  sends  me  home  unhealed,  with  angry  words, 

Back  to  Damascus  and  the  lingering  death. 
RUAHMAH: 

What  matter  where  he  sends?    No  god  is  he 

To  slay  or  make  alive.     Elisha  bids 

You  come  to  him  at  Dothan,  there  to  learn 

There  is  a  God  in  Israel. 
NAAMAN: 

I  fear 

That  I  am  grown  mistrustful  of  all  gods; 

Their  secret  counsels  are  implacable. 
RUAHMAH: 

Fear  not!    There's  One  who  rules  in  righteousness 

High  over  all. 
NAAMAN: 

What  knowest  thou  of  Him? 
RUAHMAH: 

Oh,  I  have  heard, — the  maid  of  Israel, — 
Rememberest  thou?     She  often  said  her  God 


ACT  in,  sc.  i]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  433 

Was  merciful  and  kind,  and  slow  to  wrath, 
And  plenteous  in  forgiveness,  pitying  us 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children. 

NAAMAN: 

If  there  were  such  a  God,  I'd  worship  Him 
Forever! 

RUAHMAH: 

Then  make  haste  to  hear  the  word 
His  prophet  promises  to  speak  to  thee! 
Obey  it,  my  dear  lord,  and  thou  shalt  find 
Healing  and  peace.     The  light  shall  fill  thine  eyes. 
Thou  wilt  not  need  my  leading  any  more, — 
Nor  me, — for  thou  wilt  see  me,  all  unveiled, — 
I  tremble  at  the  thought. 

NAAMAN: 

Why,  what  is  this? 
Why  shouldst  thou  tremble?    Art  thou  not  mine  own? 

RUAHMAH:  [Turning  to  him  and  speaking  in  broken  words.] 
I  am, — thy  handmaid, — all  and  only  thine, — 
The  very  pulses  of  my  heart  are  thine! 
Feel  how  they  throb  to  comfort  thee  to-day — 
To-day!    Because  it  is  thy  time  of  trouble. 

[She  takes  his  hand  and  puts  it  to.  her  forehead  and  her 
lips,  but  before  she  can  lay  it  upon  her  heart,  he  draws 
away  from  her.] 


434  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACTIII,SC.I 

NAAMAN: 

Thou  art  too  dear  to  injure  with  a  kiss, — 
How  should  I  take  a  gift  may  bankrupt  thee, 
Or  drain  the  fragrant  chalice  of  thy  love 
With  lips  that  may  be  fatal  ?    Tempt  me  not 
To  sweet  dishonour;  strengthen  me  to  wait 
Until  thy  prophecy  is  all  fulfilled, 
And  I  can  claim  thee  with  a  joyful  heart. 

RUAHMAH:  [Turning  away.] 

Thou  wilt  not  need  me  then, — and  I  shall  be 
No  more  than  the  faint  echo  of  a  song 
Heard  half  asleep.     We  shall  go  back  to  where 
We  stood  before  this  journey. 

NAAMAN: 

Never  again! 
For  thou  art  changed  by  some  deep  miracle. 

The  flower  of  womanhood  hath  bloomed  in  thee, — 
Art  thou  not  changed  ? 

RUAHMAH: 

Yea,  I  am  changed,— and  changed 

Again, — bewildered, — till  there's  nothing  clear 

To  me  but  this:  I  am  the  instrument 

In  an  Almighty  hand  to  rescue  thee 

From  death.     This  will  I  do, — and  afterward — 

[A  trumpet  is  blown  without.] 
Hearken,  the  trumpet  sounds,  the  chariot  waits. 
Away,  dear  lord,  follow  the  road  to  light! 


ACT  m,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  435 


SCENE  II* 

The  house  of  Elisha,  upon  a  terraced  hillside.  A  low  stone 
cottage  with  vine-trellises  and  flowers;  a  flight  of  steps,  at  the 
foot  of  which  is  NAAMAN'S  chariot.  He  is  standing  in  it; 
SABALLIDIN  beside  it.  Two  soldiers  come  down  the  steps. 

FIRST  SOLDIER: 

We  have  delivered  my  lord's  greeting  and  his  message. 

SECOND  SOLDIER: 

Yes,  and  near  lost  our  noses  in  the  doing  of  it!  For  the 
servant  slammed  the  door  in  our  faces.  A  most  un- 
mannerly reception! 

FIRST  SOLDIER: 

But  I  take  that  as  a  good  omen.  It  is  a  mark  of  holy  men 
to  keep  ill-conditioned  servants.  Look,  the  door  opens, 
the  prophet  is  coming. 

SECOND  SOLDIER: 

No,  by  my  head,  it  is  that  notable  mark  of  his  master's 
holiness,  that  same  lantern-jawed  lout  of  a  servant. 
[GEHAZI  loiters  down  the  steps  and  comes  to  NAAMAN 
with  a  slight  obeisance.} 

*Note  that  this  scene  is  not  intended  to  be  put  upon  the  stage,  the 
effect  of  the  action  upon  the  drama  being  given  at  the  beginning  of 
Act  IV. 


436  THE   HOUSE    OF  RIMMON     [ACT  m,  sc.  n 

GEHAZI: 

My  master,  the  prophet  of  Israel,  sends  word  to  Naaman 
the  Syrian, — are  you  he?— "Go  wash  in  Jordan  seven 
times  and  be  healed." 

[GEHAZI  turns  and  goes  slowly  up  the  steps.] 

NAAMAN: 

What  insolence  is  this  ?    Am  I  a  man 

To  be  put  off  with  surly  messengers  ? 

Has  not  Damascus  rivers  more  renowned 

Than  this  rude  muddy  Jordan?     Crystal  streams, 

Abana!     Pharpar!   flowing  smoothly  through 

A  paradise  of  roses?     Might  I  not 

Have  bathed  in  them  and  been  restored  at  ease? 

Come  up,  Saballidin,  and  guide  me  homeJ 

SABALLIDIN: 

Bethink  thee,  master,  shall  we  lose  our  quest 

Because  a  servant  is  uncouth  ?    The  road 

That  seeks  the  mountain  leads  us  through  the  vale. 

The  prophet's  word  is  friendly  after  all; 

For  had  it  been  some  mighty  task  he  set, 

Thou  wouldst  perform  it.     How  much  rather  then 

This  easy  one  ?    Hast  thou  not  promised  her 

Who  waits  for  thy  return  ?    Wilt  thou  go  back 

To  her  unhealed  ? 

NAAMAN: 

No!  not  for  all  my  pride! 

I'll  make  myself  most  humble  for  her  sake, 


ACT  m,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  437 

And  stoop  to  anything  that  gives  me  hope 

Of  having  her.     Make  haste,  Saballidin, 

Bring  me  to  Jordan.     I  will  cast  myself 

Into  that  river's  turbulent  embrace 

A  hundred  times,  until  I  save  my  life 

Or  lose  it! 

[Exeunt.  The  light  fades:  musical  interlude.  The 
light  increases  again  with  ruddy  sunset  shining  on 
the  door  of  ELISHA'S  house.  The  prophet  appears 
and  looks  off,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as 
he  descends  the  steps.  Trumpet  blows, — NAAMAN'S 
call; — sound  of  horses  galloping  and  men  shouting. 
NAAMAN  enters  joyously,  followed  by  SABALLIDIN 
and  soldiers,  with  gifts.] 
NAAMAN: 

Behold  a  man  delivered  from  the  grave 

By  thee!    I  rose  from  Jordan's  waves  restored 

To  youth  and  vigour,  as  the  eagle  mounts 

Upon  the  sunbeam  and  renews  his  strength ! 

O  mighty  prophet  deign  to  take  from  me 

These  gifts  too  poor  to  speak  my  gratitude; 

Silver  and  gold  and  jewels,  damask  robes, — 
ELISHA:  [Interrupting.} 

As  thy  soul  liveth  I  will  not  receive 

A  gift  from  thee,  my  son !     Give  all  to  Him 

Whose  mercy  hath  redeemed  thee  from  thy  plague. 


438  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON     [ACT  m,  sc.  u 

NAAMAN: 

He  is  the  only  God!    I  worship  Him! 

Grant  me  a  portion  of  the  blessed  soil 

Of  this  most  favoured  land  where  I  have  found 

His  mercy;  in  Damascus  will  I  build 

An  altar  to  His  name,  and  praise  Him  there 

Morning  and  night.     There  is  no  other  God 

In  all  the  world. 

ELISHA: 


This  load  of  earth  to  build  a  shrine  for  Him; 
Yet  take  it  if  thou  wilt.     But  be  assured 
God's  altar  is  in  every  loyal  heart, 
And  every  flame  of  love  that  kindles  there 
Ascends  to  Him  and  brightens  with  His  praise. 
There  is  no  other  God!    But  evil  Powers 
Make  war  against  Him  in  the  darkened  world; 
And  many  temples  have  been  built  to  them. 
NAAMAN: 

I  know  them  well!    Yet  when  my  master  goes 
To  worship  in  the  House  of  Rimmon,  I 
Must  enter  with  him;  for  he  trusts  me,  leans 
Upon  my  hand;  and  when  he  bows  himself 
I  cannot  help  but  make  obeisance  too,  — 
But  not  to  Rimmon!    To  my  country's  King 
I'll  bow  in  love  and  honour.     Will  the  Lord 
Pardon  thy  servant  in  this  thing  ? 


ACT  in,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  .       439 

ELISHA: 

My  son, 

Peace  has  been  granted  thee.     'Tis  thine  to  find 

The  only  way  to  keep  it.     Go  in  peace. 
NAAMAN: 

Thou  hast  not  answered  me, — may  I  bow  down  ? 
ELISHA: 

The  answer  must  be  thine.     The  heart  that  knows 

The  perfect  peace  of  gratitude  and  love, 

Walks  in  the  light  and  needs  no  other  rule. 

When  next  thou  comest  into  Rimmon's  House, 

Thy  heart  will  tell  thee  how  to  go  in  peace. 

CURTAIN 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  I 

The  interior  of  NAAMAN'S  tent,  at  night.  RUAHMAH  alone, 
sleeping  on  the  ground.  A  vision  appears  to  her  through  the 
curtains  of  the  tent:  ELISHA  standing  on  the  hillside  at  Do- 
than:  NAAMAN,  restored  to  sight,  comes  in  and  kneels  before 
him.  ELISHA  blesses  him,  and  he  goes  out  rejoicing.  The 
vision  of  the  prophet  turns  to  RUAHMAH  and  lifts  his  hand 
in  warning. 
ELISHA: 

Daughter  of  Israel,  what  dost  thou  here? 

Thy  prayer  is  granted.    Naaman  is  healed: 

Mar  not  true  service  with  a  selfish  thought. 

Nothing  remains  for  thee  to  do,  except 

Give  thanks,  and  go  whither  the  Lord  commands. 

Obey, — obey!    Ere  Naaman  returns 

Thou  must  depart  to  thine  own  house  in  Shechem. 

[The  vision  vanishes.] 
RUAHMAH:   [Waking  and  rising  slowly.] 
A  dream,  a  dream,  a  messenger  of  God! 
O  dear  and  dreadful  vision,  art  thou  true? 
Then  am  I  glad  with  all  my  broken  heart. 
440 


ACT  iv,  sc.  i]      THE  HOUSE  OF  RIMMON  441 

Nothing  remains, — nothing  remains  but  this, — 

Give  thanks,  obey,  depart, — and  so  I  do. 

Farewell,  my  master's  sword!    Farewell  to  you, 

My  amulet!     I  lay  you  on  the  hilt 

His  hand  shall  clasp  again:  bid  him  farewell 

For  me,  since  I  must  look  upon  his  face 

No  more  for  ever! — Hark,  what  sound  was  that? 

[Enter  soldier  hurriedly.] 
SOLDIER: 

Mistress,  an  armed  troop,  footmen  and  horse, 
Mounting  the  hill! 

RUAHMAH: 

My  lord  returns  in  triumph. 

SOLDIER: 

Not  so,  for  these  are  enemies;  they  march 
In  haste  and  silence,  answering  not  our  cries. 

RUAHMAH: 

Our  enemies?    Then  hold  your  ground, — on  guard! 
Fight!  fight!    Defend  the  pass,  and  drive  them  down. 
[Exit   soldier.    RUAHMAH   draws   NAAMAN'S   sword 
from  the  scabbard  and  hurries  out  of  the  tent.     Con- 
fused noise  of  fighting  outside.     Three  or  four  sol- 
diers are  driven  in  by  a  troop  of  men  in  disguise. 
RUAHMAH  follows:   she  is  beaten  to  her  knees,  and 
her  sword  is  broken.] 


442  THE   HOUSE    OF   RIMMON      [ACTIV,SC.I 

REZON:   [Throwing  aside  the  cloth  which  covers  his  face.] 
Hold  her !     So,  tiger-maid,  we've  found  your  lair 
And  trapped  you.     Where  is  Naaman, 
Your  master? 

RUAHMAH:  [Rising,  her  arms  held  by  two  O/REZON'S  followers.] 

He  is  far  beyond  your  reach. 

REZON: 

Brave  captain!    He  has  saved  himself,  the  leper, 
And  left  you  here? 

RUAHMAH: 

The  leper  is  no  more. 

REZON: 

What  mean  you? 

RUAHMAH: 

He  has  gone  to  meet  his  God. 

REZON: 

Dead?    Dead?    Behold  how  Rimmon's  wrath  is  swift! 
Damascus  shall  be  mine;   I'll  terrify 
The  King  with  this,  and  make  my  terms.     But  no! 
False  maid,  you  sweet-faced  harlot,  you  have  lied 
To  save  him, — speak. 

RUAHMAH: 

I  am  not  what  you  say, 
Nor  have  I  lied,  nor  will  I  ever  speak 
A  word  to  you,  vile  servant  of  a  traitor-god. 


ACT  iv,  sc.  i]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  443 

REZON: 

Break  off  this  little  flute  of  blasphemy, 

This  ivory  neck, — twist  it,  I  say! 

Give  her  a  swift  despatch  after  her  leper! 

But  stay, — if  he  still  lives  he'll  follow  her, 

And  so  we  may  ensnare  him.     Harm  her  not! 

Bind  her!    Away  with  her  to  Rimmon's  House! 

Is  all  this  carrion  dead?     There's  one  that  moves, — 

A  spear, — fasten  him  down!    All  quiet  now? 

Then  back  to  our  Damascus!    Rimmon's  face 

Shall  be  made  bright  with  sacrifice. 

[Exeunt,  forcing  RUAHMAH  with  them.    Musical  inter- 
lude.    A  wounded  soldier  crawls  from  a  dark  corner 
of  the  tent  and  finds  the  chain  with  NAAMAN'S  seal, 
which  has  fallen  to  the  ground  in  the  struggle.] 
WOUNDED  SOLDIER: 

The  signet  of  my  lord,  her  amulet! 
Lost,  lost!    Ah,  noble  lady, — let  me  die 
With  this  upon  my  breast. 

[The  tent  is  dark.     Enter  NAAMAN  and  his  company 

in  haste,  with  torches.] 
NAAMAN: 

What  bloody  work 

Is  here?     God,  let  me  live  to  punish  him 
Who  wrought  this  horror!     Treacherously  slain 
At  night,  by  unknown  hands,  my  brave  companions: 


444  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACTIV.SC.I 

Tsarpi,  my  best  beloved,  light  of  my  soul, 

Put  out  in  darkness!     O  my  broken  lamp 

Of  life,  where  art  thou  ?    Nay,  I  cannot  find  her. 
WOUNDED  SOLDIER:  [Raising  himself  on  his  arm.] 

Master! 
NAAMAN:  [Kneels  beside  him.] 

One  living?     Quick,  a  torch  this  way! 

Lift  up  his  head, — so, — carefully! 

Courage,  my  friend,  your  captain  is  beside  you. 

Call  back  your  soul  and  make  report  to  him. 
WOUNDED  SOLDIER: 

Hail,  captain!     O  my  captain, — here! 
NAAMAN: 

Be  patient, — rest  in  peace, — the  fight  is  done. 

Nothing  remains  but  render  your  account. 
WOUNDED  SOLDIER: 

They  fell  upon  us  suddenly, — we  fought 

Our  fiercest, — every  man, — our  lady  fought 

Fiercer  than  all.     They  beat  us  down, — she's  gone. 

Rezon  has  carried  her  away  a  captive.     See, — 

Her  amulet, — I  die  for  you,  my  captain. 

NAAMAN:    [He  gently  lays  the  dead  soldier  on  the  ground,  and 
rises.] 

Farewell.     This  last  report  was  brave;  but  strange 

Beyond  my  thought!    How  came  the  High  Priest  here? 

And  what  is  this?  my  chain,  my  seal!     But  this 


ACT  iv,  sc.  i]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  445 

Has  never  been  in  Tsarpi's  hand.     I  gave 
This  signet  to  a  captive  maid  one  night, — 
A  maid  of  Israel.     How  long  ago? 
Ruahmah  was  her  name, — almost  forgotten! 
So  long  ago, — how  comes  this  token  here? 
What  is  this  mystery,  Saballidin? 

SABALLIDIN: 

Ruahmah  is  her  name  who  brought  you  hither. 

NAAMAN: 

Where  then  is  Tsarpi  ? 

SABALLIDIN: 

In  Damascus. 

She  left  you  when  the  curse  of  Rimmon  fell, — 
Took  refuge  in  his  House, — and  there  she  waits 
Her  lord's  return, — Rezon's  return. 

NAAMAN: 

'Tis  false! 

SABALLIDIN: 

The  falsehood  is  in  her.     She  hath  been  friend 
With  Rezon  in  his  priestly  plot  to  win 
Assyria's  favour, — friend  to  his  design 
To  sell  his  country  to  enrich  his  temple, — 
And  friend  to  him  in  more, — I  will  not  name  it. 

NAAMAN: 

Nor  will  I  credit  it.     Impossible! 


446  THE   HOUSE   OF  RIMMON      [ACT  iv,  sc.  i 

SABALLIDIN: 

Did  she  not  plead  with  you  against  the  war, 

Counsel  surrender,  seek  to  break  your  will? 
NAAMAN: 

She  did  not  love  my  work,  a  soldier's  task. 

She  never  seemed  to  be  at  one  with  me 

Until  I  was  a  leper. 

SABALLIDIN: 

From  whose  hand 

Did  you  receive  the  sacred  cup  ? 

NAAMAN: 

From  hers. 
SABALLIDIN: 

And  from  that  hour  the  curse  began  to  work. 
NAAMAN: 

But  did  she  not  have  pity  when  she  saw 

Me  smitten  ?    Did  she  not  beseech  the  King 

For  letters  and  a  guard  to  make  this  journey? 

Has  she  not  been  the  fountain  of  my  hope, 

My  comforter  and  my  most  faithful  guide 

In  this  adventure  of  the  dark  ?    All  this 

Is  proof  of  perfect  love  that  would  have  shared 

A  leper's  doom  rather  than  give  me  up. 

Can  I  doubt  her  who  dared  to  love  like  this  ? 
SABALLIDIN: 

O  master,  doubt  her  not,— but  know  her  name; 

Ruahmah!    It  was  she  alone  who  wrought 


ACT  iv,  sc.  i]      THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  447 

This  wondrous  work  of  love.     She  won  the  King 
To  furnish  forth  this  company.     She  led 
Our  march,  kept  us  in  heart,  fought  off  despair, 
Watched  over  you  as  if  you  were  her  child, 
Prepared  your  food,  your  cup,  with  her  own  hands, 
Sang  you  asleep  at  night,  awake  at  dawn, — 
NAAMAN:  [Interrupting.] 

Enough !     I  do  remember  every  hour 

Of  that  sweet  comradeship !    And  now  her  voice 

Wakens  the  echoes  in  my  lonely  breast. 

Shall  I  not  see  her,  thank  her,  speak  her  name? 

Ruahmah !    Let  me  live  till  I  have  looked 

Into  her  eyes  and  called  her  my  Ruahmah ! 

[To  his  soldiers.] 

Away!  away!  I  burn  to  take  the  road 
That  leads  me  back  to  Rimmon's  House, — 
But  not  to  bow, — by  God,  never  to  bow! 


448  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON     [ACT  iv,  sc.  n 

SCENE  II 
TIME:     Three  days  later 

Inner  court  of  the  House  of  Rimmon;  a  temple  with  huge  pillars 
at  each  side.  In  the  right  foreground  the  seat  of  the  King;  at 
the  left,  of  equal  height,  the  seat  of  the  High  Priest.  In  the 
background  a  broad  flight  of  steps,  rising  to  a  curtain  of  cloudy 
gray,  embroidered  with  two  gigantic  hands  holding  thunder- 
bolts. The  temple  is  in  half  darkness  at  first.  Enter  KHAM- 
MA  and  NUBTA,  robed  as  Kharimati,  or  religious  dancers,  in 
gowns  of  black  gauze  with  yellow  embroideries  and  mantles. 
KHAMMA: 

All  is  ready  for  the  rites  of  worship;  our  lady  will  play  a 
great  part  in  them.     She  has  put  on  her  Tyrian  robes, 
and  all  her  ornaments. 
NUBTA: 

That  is  a  sure  sign  of  a  religious  purpose.     She  is  most 

devout,  our  lady  Tsarpi! 
KHAMMA: 

A  favourite  of  Rimmon,  too!    The  High  Priest  has  assured 
her  of  it.     He  is  a  great  man, — next  to  the  King,  now 
that  Naaman  is  gone. 
NUBTA: 

But  if  Naaman  should  come  back,  healed  of  the  leprosy? 


ACT  iv,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  449 

KHAMMA: 

How  can  he  come  back?    The  Hebrew  slave  that  went 
away  with  him,  when  they  caught  her,  said  that  he  was 
dead.     The  High  Priest  has  shut  her  up  in  the  prison 
of  the  temple,  accusing  her  of  her  master's  death. 
NUBTA: 

Yet  I  think  he  does  not  believe  it,  for  I  heard  him  telling 

our  mistress  what  to  do  if  Naaman  should  return. 
KHAMMA: 

What,  then? 
NUBTA: 

She  will  claim  him  as  her  husband.  Was  she  not  wedded 
to  him  before  the  god?  That  is  a  sacred  bond.  Only 
the  High  Priest  can  loose  it.  She  will  keep  her  hold  on 
Naaman  for  the  sake  of  the  House  of  Rimmon.  A  wife 

knows  her  husband's  secrets,  she  can  tell 

[Enter  SHUMAKIM,  with  his  flagon,  walking  unsteadily.] 
KHAMMA: 

Hush !  here  comes  the  fool  Shumakim.     He  is  never  sober. 
SHUMAKIM:  [Laughing.] 

Are  there  two  of  you?     I  see  two,  but  that  is  no  proof. 
I  think  there  is  only  one,  but  beautiful  enough  for  two. 
What  were  you  talking  to  yourself  about,  fairest  one! 
KHAMMA: 

About  the  lady  Tsarpi,  fool,  and  what  she  would  do  if 
her  husband  returned. 


450  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON     [ACT  iv,  sc.  n 

SHUMAKIM: 

Fie!    fie!    That  is  no  talk  for  an  innocent  fool  to  hear. 

Has  she  a  husband? 
NUBTA: 

You  know  very  well  that  she  is  the  wife  of  Lord  Naaman. 

SHUMAKIM: 

I  remember  that  she  used  to  wear  his  name  and  his  jewels. 
But  I  thought  he  had  exchanged  her, — for  a  leprosy. 

KHAMMA: 

You  must  have  heard  that  he  went  away  to  Samaria  to 
look  for  healing.  Some  say  that  he  died  on  the  journey; 
but  others  say  he  has  been  cured,  and  is  on  his  way 
home  to  his  wife. 

SHUMAKIM: 

It  may  be,  for  this  is  a  mad  world,  and  men  never  know 
when  they  are  well  off, — except  us  fools.  But  he  must 
come  soon  if  he  would  find  his  wife  as  he  parted  from 
her, — or  the  city  where  he  left  it.  The  Assyrians  have 
returned  with  a  greater  army,  and  this  time  they  will 
make  an  end  of  us.  There  is  no  Naaman  now,  and  the 
Bull  will  devour  Damascus  like  a  bunch  of  leeks,  flowers 
and  all, — flowers  and  all,  my  double-budded  fair  one! 
Are  you  not  afraid? 

NUBTA: 

We  belong  to  the  House  of  Rimmon.    He  will  protect  us, 


ACT  iv,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  451 

SHUMAKIM: 

What?  The  mighty  one  who  hides  behind  the  curtain 
there,  and  tells  his  secrets  to  Rezon  ?  No  doubt  he  will 
take  care  of  you,  and  of  himself.  Whatever  game  is 
played,  the  gods  never  lose.  But  for  the  protection  of 
the  common  people  and  the  rest  of  us  fools,  I  would 
rather  have  Naaman  at  the  head  of  an  army  than  all 
the  sacred  images  between  here  and  Babylon. 
KHAMMA: 

You  are  a  wicked  old  man.     You  mock  the  god.    He  will 

punish  you. 
SHUMAKIM:  [Bitterly.] 

How  can  he  punish  me?  Has  he  not  already  made  me  a 
fool?  Hark,  here  comes  my  brother  the  High  Priest, 
and  my  brother  the  King.  Rimmon  made  us  all;  but 
nobody  knows  who  made  Rimmon,  except  the  High 
Priest;  and  he  will  never  tell. 

Gongs  and  cymbals  sound.  Enter  REZON  with  priests,  and  the 
King  with  courtiers.  They  take  their  seats.  A  throng  of 
Khali  and  Kharimati  .come  in,  TSARPI  presiding;  a  sacred 
dance  is  performed  with  torches,  burning  incense,  and  chant- 
ing, in  which  TSARPI  leads.] 

CHANT 

Hail,  mighty  Rimmon,  ruler  of  the  whirl-storm, 
Hail,  shaker  of  mountains,  breaker-down  of  forests, 


452  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON     [ACT  iv,  sc.  n 

Hail,  thou  who  roarest  terribly  in  the  darkness, 
Hail,  thou  whose  arrows  flame  across  the  heavens! 
Hail,  great  destroyer,  lord  of  flood  and  tempest, 
In  thine  anger  almighty,  in  thy  wrath  eternal, 
Thou  who  delightest  in  ruin,  maker  of  desolations, 
Immeru,  Addu,  Barku,  Rimmon! 
See  we  tremble  before  thee,  low  we  bow  at  thine  altar, 
Have  mercy  upon  us,  be  favourable  unto  us, 
Save  us  from  our  enemy,  accept  our  sacrifice, 
Barku,  Immeru,  Addu,  Rimmon! 

[Silence  follows,  all  bowing  down.} 

REZON: 

O  King,  last  night  the  counsel  from  above 
Was  given  in  answer  to  our  divination. 
Ambassadors  must  go  forthwith  to  crave 
Assyria's  pardon,  and  a  second  offer 
Of  the  same  terms  of  peace  we  did  reject 
Not  long  ago. 

BENHADAD: 

Dishonour!    Yet  I  see 
No  other  way!    Assyria  will  refuse, 
Or  make  still  harder  terms.     Disaster,  shame 
For  this  gray  head,  and  ruin  for  Damascus! 

REZON: 

Yet  may  we  trust  Rimmon  will  favour  us, 
If  we  adhere  devoutly  to  his  worship. 


ACT  iv,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  453 

He  will  incline  his  brother-god,  the  Bull, 

To  spare  us,  if  we  supplicate  him  now 

With  costly  gifts.     Therefore  I  have  prepared 

A  sacrifice:     Rimmon  shall  be  well  pleased 

With  the  red  blood  that  bathes  his  knees  to-night! 
BENHADAD: 

My  mind  is  dark  with  doubt, — I  do  forebode 

Some  horror!    Let  me  go, — I  am  an  old  man, — 

If  Naaman  my  captain  were  alive! 

But  he  is  dead, — the  glory  is  departed! 

[He  rises,  trembling,  to  leave  the  throne.     Trumpet 
sounds, — NAAMAN'S  call; — enter  NAAMAN,  followed 
by  soldiers;  he  kneels  at  the  foot  of  the  throne.} 
BENHADAD:  [Half -whispering} 

Art  thou  a  ghost  escaped  from  Allatu? 

How  didst  thou  pass  the  seven  doors  of  death  ? 

O  noble  ghost  I  am  afraid  of  thee, 

And  yet  I  love  thee, — let  me  hear  thy  voice! 
NAAMAN: 

No  ghost,  my  King,  but  one  who  lives  to  serve 

Thee  and  Damascus  with  his  heart  and  sword 

As  in  the  former  days.     The  only  God 

Has  healed  my  leprosy:  my  life  is  clean 

To  offer  to  my  country  and  my  King. 
BENHADAD:  [Starting  toward  him} 

O  welcome  to  thy  King!    Thrice  welcome! 


454  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON     [ACT  iv,  sc.  n 

REZON:  [Leaving  his  seat  and  coming  toward  NAAMAN.] 

Stay! 

The  leper  must  appear  before  the  priest, 
The  only  one  who  can  pronounce  him  clean. 

[NAAMAN  turns;  they  stand  looking  each  other  in  the 

face.] 

Yea, — thou  art  cleansed:   Rimmon  hath  pardoned  thee, — 
In  answer  to  the  daily  prayers  of  her 
Whom  he  restores  to  thine  embrace, — thy  wife. 
[TSARPI  comes  slowly  toward  NAAMAN.] 

NAAMAN: 

From  him  who  rules  this  House  will  I  receive 
Nothing!     I  seek  no  pardon  from  his  priest, 
No  wife  of  mine  among  his  votaries! 

TSARPI:  [Holding  out  her  hands.] 

Am  I  not  yours  ?    Will  you  renounce  our  vows  ? 

NAAMAN: 

The  vows  were  empty, — never  made  you  mine 
In  aught  but  name.     A  wife  is  one  who  shares 
Her  husband's  thought,  incorporates  his  heart 
With  hers  by  love,  and  crowns  him  with  her  trust. 
She  is  God's  remedy  for  loneliness, 
And  God's  reward  for  all  the  toil  of  life. 
This  you  have  never  been  to  me, — and  so 
I  give  you  back  again  to  Rimmon's  House 
Where  you  belong.     Claim  what  you  will  of  mine, — 


ACT  iv,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  455 

Not  me!    I  do  renounce  you, — or  release  you, — 
According  to  the  law.     If  you  demand 
A  further  cause  than  what  I  have  declared, 
I  will  unfold  it  fully  to  the  King. 
REZON:  [Interposing  hurriedly.] 

No  need  of  that!    This  duteous  lady  yields 
To  your  caprice  as  she  has  ever  done: 
She  stands  a  monument  of  loyalty 
And  woman's  meekness. 

NAAMAN: 

Let  her  stand  for  that! 

Adorn  your  temple  with  her  piety! 

But  you  in  turn  restore  to  me  the  treasure 

You  stole  at  midnight  from  my  tent. 
REZON: 

What  treasure!    I  have  stolen  none  from  you. 
NAAMAN: 

The  very  jewel  of  my  soul, — Ruahmah ! 

My  King,  the  captive  maid  of  Israel, 

To  whom  thou  didst  commit  my  broken  life 

With  letters  to  Samaria, — my  light, 

My  guide,  my  saviour  in  this  pilgrimage, — 

Dost  thou  remember? 

BENHADAD: 

I  recall  the  maid, — 

But  dimly, — for  my  mind  is  old  and  weary. 

She  was  a  fearless  maid,  I  trusted  her 

And  gave  thee  to  her  charge.     Where  is  she  now? 


456  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON     [ACT  iv,  sc.  n 

NAAMAN: 

This  robber  fell  upon  my  camp  by  night, — 
While  I  was  with  Elisha  at  the  Jordan, — 
Slaughtered  my  soldiers,  carried  off  the  maid, 
And  holds  her  somewhere  in  imprisonment. 

0  give  this  jewel  back  to  me,  my  King, 
And  I  will  serve  thee  with  a  grateful  heart 
For  ever.     I  will  fight  for  thee,  and  lead 
Thine  armies  on  to  glorious  victory 
Over  all  foes!    Thou  shalt  no  longer  fear 
The  host  of  Asshur,  for  thy  throne  shall  stand 
Encompassed  with  a  wall  of  dauntless  hearts, 
And  founded  on  a  mighty  people's  love, 

And  guarded  by  the  God  of  righteousness. 
BENHADAD: 

1  feel  the  flame  of  courage  at  thy  breath 
Leap  up  among  the  ashes  of  despair. 

Thou  hast  returned  to  save  us!    Thou  shalt  have 
The  maid;  and  thou  shalt  lead  my  host  again! 
Priest,  I  command  you  give  her  back  to  him. 
REZON: 

O  master,  I  obey  thy  word  as  thou 
Hast  ever  been  obedient  to  the  voice 
Of  Rimmon.    Let  thy  fiery  captain  wait 
Until  the  sacrifice  has  been  performed, 
And  he  shall  have  the  jewel  that  he  claims. 
Must  we  not  first  placate  the  city's  god 


ACT  iv,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE  OF  RIMMON  457 

With  due  allegiance,  keep  the  ancient  faith, 

And  pay  our  homage  to  the  Lord  of  Wrath  ? 
BENHADAD:   [Sinking  back  upon  his  throne  in  fear.] 

I  am  the  faithful  son  of  Rimmon's  House, — 

And  lo,  these  many  years  I  worship  him! 

My  thoughts  are  troubled,— I  am  very  old, 

But  still  a  King!    O  Naaman,  be  patient! 

Priest,  let  the  sacrifice  be  offered. 

[The  High  Priest  lifts  his  rod.  Gongs  and  cymbals 
sound.  The  curtain  is  rolled  back,  disclosing  the 
image  of  Rimmon;  a  gigantic  and  hideous  idol,  with 
a  cruel  human  face,  four  horns,  the  mane  of  a  lion, 
and  huge  paws  stretched  in  front  of  him  enclosing  a 
low  altar  of  black  stone.  RUAHMAH  stands  on  the 
altar,  chained,  her  arms  are  bare  and  folded  on  her 
breast.  The  people  prostrate  themselves  in  silence, 
with  signs  of  astonishment  and  horror.] 
REZON: 

Behold  the  sacrifice!    Bow  down,  bow  down! 
NAAMAN:  [Stabbing  him.] 

Bow  thou,  black  priest!    Down, — down  to  hell! 

Ruahmah!  do  not  die!     I  come  to  thee. 

[NAAMAN  rushes  toward  her,  attacked  by  the  priests, 
crying  " Sacrilege!  Kill  him!"  But  the  soldiers 
stand  on  the  steps  and  beat  them  back.  He  springs 
upon  the  altar  and  clasps  her  by  the  hand.  Tumult 


458  THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON     [ACTIV,SC.II 

and  confusion.     The  King  rises  and  speaks  with  a 
loud  voice,  silence  follows.] 
BENHADAD: 

Peace,  peace!    The  King  commands  all  weapons  down! 

O  Naaman,  what  wouldst  thou  do?    Beware 

Lest  thou  provoke  the  anger  of  a  god. 
NAAMAN: 

There  is  no  God  but  one,  the  Merciful, 

Who  gave  this  perfect  woman  to  my  soul 

That  I  might  learn  through  her  to  worship  Him, 

And  know  the  meaning  of  immortal  Love. 
BENHADAD:  [Agitated.] 

Yet  she  is  consecrated,  bound,  and  doomed 

To  sacrificial  death;  but  thou  art  sworn 

To  live  and  lead  my  host, — Hast  thou  not  sworn? 
NAAMAN: 

Only  if  thou  wilt  keep  thy  word  to  me! 

Break  with  this  idol  of  iniquity 

Whose  shadow  makes  a  darkness  in  the  land; 

Give  her  to  me  who  gave  me  back  to  thee; 

And  I  will  lead  thine  army  to  renown 

And  plant  thy  banners  on  the  hill  of  triumph. 

But  if  she  dies,  I  die  with  her,  defying  Rimmon. 

[Cries  of  "Spare  them!  Release  her!  Give  us  back  our 
Captain!"  and  "Sacrilege!  Let  them  die!"  Then 
silence,  all  turning  toward  the  King.] 


ACT  iv,  sc.  ii]     THE  HOUSE   OF  RIMMON  459 

BENHADAD: 

Is  this  the  choice  ?    Must  we  destroy  the  bond 

Of  ancient  faith,  or  slay  the  city's  living  hope! 

I  am  an  old,  old  man, — and  yet  the  King! 

Must  I  decide? — O  let  me  ponder  it! 

[His  head  sinks  upon  his  breast.    All  stand  eagerly 

looking  at  him.] 
NAAMAN: 

Ruahmah,  my  Ruahmah!    I  have  come 

To  thee  at  last!    And  art  thou  satisfied? 
RUAHMAH:  [Looking  into  his  face.] 

Beloved,  my  beloveM,  I  am  glad 

Of  all,  and  glad  for  ever,  come  what  may. 

Nothing  can  harm  me, — since  my  lord  is  come! 


FINIS 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  fir-tree  standeth  lonely 299 

A  flawless  cup:   how  delicate  and  fine 351 

A  little  fir  grew  in  the  midst  of  the  wood 131 

A  little  while  the  rose 354 

A  silent  world, — yet  full  of  vital  joy 82 

A  silken  curtain  veils  the  skies 42 

A  tear  that  trembles  for  a  little  while 23 

A  wreath  of  poppy  flowers 290 

Across  a  thousand  miles  of  sea,  a  hundred  leagues  of  land       .     .278 

Afterthought  of  summer's  bloom! 43 

Ah,  who  will  tell  me,  in  these  leaden  days 34 

All  day  long  in  the  city's  canyon-street      ....    V    ....  191 

All  night  long,  by  a  distant  bell *     . '  •  i     ...  325 

All  the  trees  are  sleeping,  all  the  winds  are  still,          .     .     ^     .     .  318 

Although  you  eat  me  to  the  root 356 

At  dawn  in  silence  moves  the  mighty  stream 46 

At  sunset,  when  the  rosy  light  was  dying 29 

Blessed  is  the  man  that  beholdeth  the  face  of  a  friend  in  a  far 

country 363 

Children  of  the  elemental  mother 152 

Come,  give  me  back  my  life  again,  you  heavy-handed  Death!       .  102 

Could  every  time-worn  heart  but  see  Thee  once  again     ....  330 

Count  not  the  cost  of  honour  to  the  dead! 164 

Daughter  of  Psyche,  pledge  of  that  wild  night 231 

Dear  Aldrich,  now  November's  mellow  days .  223 

Dear  to  my  heart  are  the  ancestral  dwellings  of  America     .     .     .  141 

Dear  tranquil  Habit,  with  her  silent  hands 291 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  forest  the  lily  of  Yorrow  is  growing    .     .  53 

"Do  you  give  thanks  for  this? — or  that?"     No,  God  be  thanked  315 

Do  you  remember,  father, — 10 

Does  the  snow  fall  at  sea?       .     ^ 45 

463 


464  INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Fair  Roslin  Chapel,  how  divine 49 

Flowers  rejoice  when  night  is  done        24 

For  that  thy  face  is  fair  I  love  thee  not 263 

Four  things  a  man  must  learn  to  do 360 

From  the  misty  shores  of  midnight,  touched  with  splendours  of  the 

moon 214 

Furl  your  sail,  my  little  boatie 307 

Glory  of  architect,  glory  of  painter,  and  sculptor,  and  bard      .     .  246 

Great  Nature  had  a  million  words 249 

Hear  a  word  that  Jesus  spake 67 

Heart  of  France  for  a  hundred  years 216 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  evening  air 277 

Hours  fly 341 

How  blind  the  toil  that  burrows  like  the  mole 213 

How  long  is  the  night,  brother 276 

How  long  the  echoes  love  to  play 27 

How  wonderful  are  the  cities  that  man  hath  builded 367 

I  count  that  friendship  little  worth 314 

I  envy  every  flower  that  blows 271 

I  love  the  hour  that  comes,  with  dusky  hair 48 

I  love  thine  inland  seas        140 

I  put  my  heart  to  school 31 

I  read  within  a  poet's  book 261 

I  think  of  thee  when  golden  sunbeams  glimmer 298 

I  will  sing  of  the  bounty  of  the  big  trees 369 

I  would  not  even  ask  my  heart  to  say       139 

If  all  the  skies  were  sunshine        30 

If  I  have  erred  in  showing  all  my  heart 284 

If  on  the  closed  curtain  of  my  sight 264 

In  a  great  land,  a  new  land,  a  land  full  of  labour  and  riches  and 

confusion 219 

In  mirth  he  mocks  the  other  birds  at  noon 351 

In  robes  of  Tyrian  blue  the  King  was  drest        125 

In  warlike  pomp,  with  banners  flowing 40 

Into  the  dust  of  the  making  of  man 169 

It  pleased  the  Lord  of  Angels  (praise  His  name!)        *    .    .    .     .  106 

It's  little  I  can  tell 265 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES  465 

PAGE 

"Joy  is  a  Duty," — so  with  golden  lore 357 

Joyful,  joyful,  we  adore  Thee 332 

Just  to  give  up,  and  trust 329 

Knight-Errant  of  the  Never-ending  Quest 212 

Let  me  but  do  my  work  from  day  to  day 256 

Let  me  but  feel  thy  look's  embrace 268 

Let  me  but  live  my  life  from  year  to  year 258 

Let  me  but  love  my  love  without  disguise 257 

Life  is  an  arrow — therefore  you  must  know 359 

Like  a  long  arrow  through  the  dark  the  train  is  darting  .     .     .     .  272 

Limber-limbed,  lazy  god,  stretched  on  the  rock 351 

Long  ago  Apollo  called  to  Aristaeus,  youngest  of  the  shepherds     .  in 

Long  had  I  loved  this  "Attic  shape,"  the  brede 349 

Long,  long  ago  I  heard  a  little  song 323 

Long,  long,  long  the  trail 50 

Lord  Jesus,  Thou  hast  known 309 

Lover  of  beauty,  walking  on  the  height 207 

Man  the  maker  of  cities  is  also  a  builder  of  altars 372 

March  on,  my  soul,  nor  like  a  laggard  stay! 331 

Mine  enemies  have  prevailed  against  me,  O  God: 371 

Mother  of  all  the  high-strung  poets  and  singers  departed     .     .     .  205 

Not  to  the  swift,  the  race 259 

Now  in  the  oak  the  sap  of  life  is  welling        38 

O  garden  isle,  beloved  by  Sun  and  Sea 161 

O  mighty  river!  strong,  eternal  Will 360 

O  morning  star,  farewell! 355 

O  who  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 255 

O  wonderful!     How  liquid  clear 21 

O  youngest  of  the  giant  brood 157 

Oh,  quick  to  feel  the  lightest  touch 225 

Oh,  was  I  born  too  soon,  my  dear,  or  were  you  born  too  late  .     .  267 

Oh,  what  do  you  know  of  the  song,  my  dear 248 

Oh,  why  are  you  shining  so  bright,  big  Sun        279 

Often  I  dream  your  big  blue  eyes 289 

On  the  old,  old  bridge,  with  its  crumbling  stones 292 


466  INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Once,  only  once,  I  saw  it  clear, — 280 

One  sail  in  sight  upon  the  lonely  sea 144 

Only  a  little  shrivelled  seed 316 

Our  silent  eyes  alone  interpreted 293 

Remember,  when  the  timid  light 286 

Saints  are  God's  flowers,  fragrant  souls 311 

Self  is  the  only  prison  that  can  ever  bind  the  soul 358 

Seven  pupils,  in  the  class 356 

Soul  of  a  soldier  in  a  poet's  frame •     .     .     .     .  228 

Stand  back,  ye  messengers  of  mercy!     Stand 159 

Sweet  in  summer,  cups  of  snow 355 

The  British  bard  who  looked  on  Eton's  walls     . 183 

The  cornerstone  in  Truth  is  laid 343 

The  cradle  I  have  made  for  thee 288 

The  fire  of  love  was  burning,  yet  so  low 317 

The  grief  that  is  but  feigning .     .     .  352 

The  land  was  broken  in  despair        162 

The  lizard  rested  on  the  rock  while  I  sat  among  the  ruins        .     .376 

The  Lord  is  my  teacher 378 

The  melancholy  gift  Aurora  gained       211 

The  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood  were  pouring      .  22 

The  mountains  that  inclose  the  vale 260 

The  nymphs  a  shepherd  took 353 

The  other  night  I  had  a  dream,  most  clear 119 

The  record  of  a  faith  sublime 215 

The  river  of  dreams  runs  quietly  down 300 

The  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water 374 

The  roar  of  the  city  is  low 154 

The  shadow  by  my  finger  cast 345 

The  time  will  come  when  I  no  more  can  play 250 

The  ways  of  the  world  are  full  of  haste  and  turmoil 377 

The  worlds  in  which  we  live  at  heart  are  one 357 

There  are  many  kinds  of  love,  as  many  kinds  of  light     *    -.     .     .  359 

There  are  songs  for  the  morning  and  songs  for  the  night     ...  25 

There  is  a  bird  I  know  so  well 13 

There's  no  one  here;   the  garden  is  asleep ;     .     .  383 

This  is  the  soldier  brave  enough  to  tell .  166 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES  467 

PAGE 

This  is  the  thanksgiving  of  the  weary .  365 

This  is  the  window's  message 342 

Thou  hast  taken  me  into  thy  tent  of  the  world,  O  God  ....  379 

Thou  who  hast  made  thy  dwelling  fair 55 

"Through  many  a  land  your  journey  ran 273 

'Tis  fine  to  see  the  Old  World,  and  travel  up  and  down      .     .     .  167 

To  thee,  plain  hero  of  a  rugged  race 165 

'Twas  far  away  and  long  ago 266 

Two  dwellings,  Peace,  are  thine 334 

Two  hundred  years  of  blessing  I  record 344 

"Two  things,"  the  wise  man  said,  "fill  me  with  awe 348 

Waking  from  tender  sleep 322 

We  knew  you  well,  dear  Yorick  of  the  West 347 

We  met  on  Nature's  stage        350 

Well,  you  will  triumph,  dear  and  noble  friend!        296 

What  shall  I  give  for  thee 328 

What  time  the  rose  of  dawn  is  laid  across  the  lips  of  night      .     .  6 

When  down  the  stair  at  morning 269 

When  first  upon  my  brow  I  felt  your  kiss 295 

When  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees 19 

When  the  frosty  kiss  of  Autumn  in  the  dark 320 

When  to  the  garden  of  untroubled  thought 262 

When  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square 3 

Where's  your  kingdom,  little  king?       15 

White  Death  hafd  laid  his  pall  upon  the  plain 47 

Who  seeks  for  heaven  alone  to  save  his  soul 358 

Who  watched  the  worn-out  Winter  die  ?    » 32 

With  eager  heart  and  will  on  fire 327 

With  memories  old  and  wishes  new 346 

With  two  bright  eyes,  my  star,  my  love 354 

Wordsworth,  thy  music  like  a  river  rolls 210 

i 

Yes,  it  was  like  you  to  forget 274 

You  only  promised  me  a  single  hour 285 

Yours  is  a  garden  of  old-fashioned  flowers 227 


STORED  AT  K 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


OCT  271965 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


PS3115.A2  1911 


3  2106  00208  2912 


